Curse the Darkness
by Ajestice
Summary: He had originally intended to kill her; she was far too beautiful to live when he was so hideous. But when he came to her in the dead of night, she spoke to him. And so began the love that would slowly heal his soul and make him truly, desperately human.
1. Touch

**THE CREATURE**

"What is your name?" She asked of the shadows. Her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, but there was no fear in her. Not anymore.

He felt his lips curl into a smile before he could control the impulse. It was amazing, how her presence and her words could soothe his wild temper.

"Can demons have names?" He mused, watching the play of thought on her face in the pale, filtered moonlight. He knew the answer, of course. A tender subject for him. Demons had names: Beelzebub, Gremory, As'bel, Volac. Even Lucifer had a name.

He did not.

Perhaps that made him something worse, something lower than a demon. An unwanted blight upon the Earth. Something that even Hell would not take.

"I do not think you are a demon," she said softly.

_You cannot know._

"You have never tried to take my soul," she added, as if she had heard his thought. The pragmatism in her voice made him smile again.

"But I could easily take your life," he replied. Her lips thinned slightly, but she was not cowed.

"I grow tired of your underhanded threats, my friend," she said, bemused. "If you ever intended to kill me you would have shown yourself a long time ago."

Of course, she was right. He didn't want to admit it, because it meant that she'd seen something in him that he had not noticed, an ulterior motive that had completely eluded him.

"If I were to do so now, it would be a death sentence by your own words."

She paused, tilted her head, bit her bottom lip in a way that made his blood run hot.

"If you were to do so now, it would mean that you trusted me, and that is something you cannot do," she said softly. He winced at the resignation in her tone.

"Trust is irrelevant. You are human; you all react the same way."

"That is extremely unfair," she snapped. "You should never have judged _me_ without giving me a chance. But you already have."

"Have I?" He mused.

"You can see me," she pointed out. "You have judged me by my appearance since the beginning. And yet you claim that _I_ am the one who would judge _you_."

He paused. It was true; upon first seeing her he had thought only of her beauty and his overwhelming desire to destroy her. He had been running wild through these lands, the uninhabited forests that bordered France and Switzerland. And here he had found her, in her father's large, luxurious home, lying in a bed of silk and down, her skin silvered by moonlight.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Overcome with envy and rage, he'd wanted to smother the life out of her, to feel her elegant neck snap in his hands.

But then she had woken up, and pinned him with her pale, intelligent eyes.

She had spoken to him, her voice fearless and arrogant. And something in her tone had reached him through the haze of bloodlust and hatred.

"If I had judged you by your appearance, you would not still be alive."

"Are you implying that you did not originally intend to kill me?" She demanded. He raised his eyebrows at the heat in her voice. "Because then you would be lying."

"I do not lie," he whispered, as the first tendrils of anger slithered into his mind. "And you would do well to watch your tongue, Helena."

She did not heed him. "And that is another advantage you have over me; you know my name. You know my family, and my friends. You know almost everything there is to know about me. And what do I know of you? That you are not a demon. That I can sleep in peace when you are near. And that you are so desperately shy that you would sooner kill me than let me see your face."

He stepped forward, propelled by his anger, until he was close enough for her to see his movement through the shadows. She froze, and every muscle in her body went tense.

"There is nothing to know," he told her in that dangerously soft voice. "I have no history, no family. I don't even have a name."

"Why?" She whispered.

"What?" He asked in surprise.

"Why don't you have a name?"

He hesitated, and frowned. "I was not given one."

"Then give yourself one," she said firmly. "It is the least you deserve."

"You know nothing," he whispered. "What makes you think I deserve even life?"

"Stop that," she snapped. "Everyone and everything deserves life. When you were born you were a blank slate, but you had life. It is not something you must _earn_. It is God's gift to you, along with a soul." She waited a moment, and then added, "though if I know you at all, next you're going to tell me you don't _have_ a soul."

He stopped short at her sudden humor.

"If I have a soul," he said slowly, "it was damned a long time ago."

"Stop it, blast you," she cursed, throwing her blankets to the side and stepping down onto the cool wooden floor. "I'm sick of hearing you speak so horribly about yourself. What is it that makes you think you deserve such hatred? You are the smartest man I have ever known."

She stepped out beyond the rectangle of moonlight that always kept her illuminated and he in shadows, arms outstretched slightly. He maneuvered easily around her, but his heart was beating so hard he could hear blood rushing in his ears. She had never done this before, she had never struck out into the darkness.

"Is this human curiosity or human stupidity?" He wondered quietly, and instantly she turned towards his voice. "Or are they, perhaps, the same thing?"

"Please," she said, dropping her arms and stopping in place. "Let me see you."

"No," he replied flatly. He saw her eyes close, and she sighed.

"Let me touch you, then," she pleaded.

"What part of me?" He mused with a sly grin.

Her eyebrows furrowed in frustration. "Your face."

"No," he repeated.

"Please," she begged. "Even Cupid was not this cruel to Psyche."

"Cupid was beautiful," he reminded her. "He had no reason to hide himself other than pride."

"And what reason have you?"

"Every reason, Helena," he said softly. And then, against his better judgment, he took a step forward, and then another, until he was only a few feet away. She was a force of nature. He could not help but be drawn to her.

Her eyes were wide, but she remained blinded by the darkness.

"What am I to you, then?" She wondered. The sadness in her voice sent a bolt of pain through his chest. "Why are you even here?"

He couldn't speak, couldn't move. His entire body felt numb and heavy. Why, indeed? What was he doing here if not amplifying his own suffering? She was beautiful, and clever, and kind. He would never deserve this woman. Even if he completed the tasks of Hercules, he would not deserve this woman. She was everything he wasn't.

Innocent.

Suddenly she was standing right in front of him, eyes closed, head tilted back.

"I can smell you," she whispered. "You smell like wood smoke and cedar and something else, something very faint and fresh, like… lavender?"

He couldn't move, even though she was standing only inches away. He could feel her there like a force, a blazing fire, emanating heat and silence.

"Don't," he whispered. Pleaded.

She reached out and brushed her fingertips very lightly over his bare chest; he was naked except for the heavy cloak and soft cotton breeches he'd stolen from a merchant in Austria.

The sensation nearly drove him to his knees; soft, cool skin, light fingertips sliding over his chest like droplets of water. That little touch sent a ripple effect through his entire body, igniting him, turning his blood to a fire that burned straight through him.

If she was surprised to be touching bare skin she did not show it. And she didn't jump when he grabbed her wrist and stepped out of reach. There was a small smile curling her lips.

"You're very tall," she whispered. "I meant to touch your face."

"You have no idea how dangerous that was," he told her in a low, growling voice. Then he realized he was still holding her wrist and he released her instantly. She brought her wrist to her chest and cradled it there; even in the semi-darkness he could see the bruises forming.

"I think I have some idea," she replied, rubbing her arm. One corner of her mouth curled up in a wry smile.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I forget my strength."

"I don't mind," she replied. Then in a softer voice, "I'm not going to stop trying."

"I know," he murmured.

"Please?"

"Why?" He demanded, unable to hide the exasperation in his voice.

"Because I want to know more about you," she replied. "I know what you sound like, what you smell like. I know what you feel like. You won't let me taste you, so I wish to see you."

"You do not need to know everything about me," he murmured, ignoring the humor in her words.

"Please," she begged, serious again. "What do you want from me? I'll do anything."

"Stop that," he growled.

"Stop what?"

"Your supplication. It is useless."

"Let me touch you again," she commanded. The change in her tone and posture brought a smile to his lips. "Let me see through touch."

"Ordering me about won't work, either," he noted.

A look of supreme frustration crossed her face. "Why?" she demanded. "Why are you tormenting me like this?"

"You are tormenting yourself, Lena," he replied calmly. But he could feel his willpower beginning to weaken. He could hear and see the emotions that ran beneath her anger and frustration; she was sad, and hurt.

His heart ached for her.

"So I am a masochist," she agreed. "And you? You are a sadist. We are a perfect match, aren't we?"

He did not reply. There was nothing he could say that would convince her to let this go. He knew that.

Lena brought her hands up to her face and rubbed her temples. And then, in a soft, trembling voice, she said, "If you have any love for me at all, you will let me have this."

He flinched at her tone. He did not like causing her pain. He hated it.

In fact, he was fairly certain that if any man ever made her look as desolate as she looked now, he would beat the unfortunate bastard senseless.

He did not like being a hypocrite. There was only one thing he could do.

He came forward and dropped to his knees, head bowed in defeat. Kneeling, he no longer towered over her, though he was still several inches taller.

Lena stood very still, and this time she jumped when he took her hands into his. He was careful to keep his grip gentle this time.

Dread filled him, head to toe, matched only by his despair.

Her perception of him was about to change forever. There was no turning back from this.

"Be kind to me," he whispered, and he placed her hands on his shoulders.


	2. Kiss

**_Author's Note:_**_Thank you, Philomina and Megumisakura, so much for your reviews! I hope this second chapter doesn't disappoint._

_On another note, my story takes place after the end of the original novel, after Victor died in the Arctic. The creature will explain what happened after that in a later chapter. Oh, and I will, eventually, be giving him a name. I hate having to refer to him as 'the creature'._

* * *

**HELENA**

Lena took a deep breath, slow and even, as she waited to make sure he wasn't going to change his mind. His pulse beat slowly beneath her hands, because he was such a large man. She could feel muscle, warm and firm, beneath the heavy fabric that covered his shoulders. Some sort of cloak, perhaps?

After a few moments, she slid her hands from his shoulders up to his neck, and heard him catch his breath as her fingertips made contact with the soft skin there. His heartbeat sped up as she moved her hands up to his jaw line.

That was where she felt the first scar. It was a horrible thing, a mar in soft, supple flesh, raised slightly and patterned by careless, haphazard stitches that had long since been removed or disintegrated. Every muscle in his body went painfully tense when her fingers brushed that scar. She traced it silently from the nape of his neck, over his jugular vein, and down the center of his chest to the collarbone.

"Does it hurt?" She whispered. He chuckled humorlessly.

"No, not anymore."

She felt tears burning in her eyes, but she pushed them back. Let them come later, when she was alone, and she could mourn for him in private. She moved her hands up to his jaw, and found another scar, a different one that ran from the tip of his chin up to his left eye socket. She followed it lightly, so as not to alarm him when her touch strayed. He flinched a bit when she brushed her hand over his cheek. She shushed him and continued, and unconsciously pulled him closer, pulled herself closer, leaned against him and tilted her head back until her face was only inches from his.

A scar ran from his temple up into sinfully soft hair. Long hair. When she brushed her fingers through it, a small sigh escaped his lips and she smiled. Her blood thundered in her ears, and her entire body felt electrified, drawn like a magnet to him.

She had wanted to touch him since she had first heard his voice, pulling her abruptly from her nightmares. She had wanted to know him, to see him. To see the smile she so often heard in his voice.

He was beautiful, but for the scars. As she touched him, she closed her eyes and mapped out a picture of him in her mind. Strong square jaw, large eyes and a straight, aristocratic nose. Silky soft hair – but what color? – and pale scars slashing through his beauty like lightning through a peaceful summer's eve.

Another scar ran over the bridge of his nose and under his other eye, to his right ear. Anger and sadness burned within her, and she could feel her fingers trembling. So many scars. So much destruction. Was his entire body covered with these wounds? No man should ever have to live with such pain!

The last scar, the one that started at the tip of his chin and ran up to his bottom lip; she followed it, felt the slightly raised edges, and when her fingers drifted from the scar tissue, he inhaled sharply.

"Don't," he whispered, but she ignored him and pressed her lips against his. He froze, and stopped breathing. Lena felt her world spin, dance, and then fall around her like rain to focus on the man before her. Soft, warm lips. Pleasure shot through her, weakening her muscles and stealing the air from her lungs. Her blood turned warm, and then hot, and it burned beneath her skin. She slid her hands down to his shoulders and broke the kiss to speak, but as soon as her lips parted with his, he disappeared, slipping away from her instantly, as if he was made of nothing but dreams and shadows.

"Wait," she pleaded, but an instant later she heard the door shut softly. She stood there in silence, hoping with all her heart that he might come back.

He didn't. Eventually she turned and crawled back into her bed, laid back against her pillows and looked up at the night sky, and out over the fields and forest. The moon cast pale light over the scenery, but Lena knew better than to look for him; he was an expert at avoiding detection.

After a while, the tears surfaced, burning in her eyes and down her cheeks. She sobbed quietly, curled up on her side, until exhaustion finally overcame her.

And that night, for the first time in months, her night terrors returned.


	3. Memory

_AN: Jacqueline18, Megumisakura, Philomina and Kirai-Ninja, thank you so much for your reviews. A quick sidenote: Italics in this chapter are flashbacks.  
_

* * *

**THE CREATURE**

He ran swiftly and silently through the forest, hoping to put as much distance between them as possible. The closer he was, the greater the temptation to return to her, and if he returned to her, he wasn't sure he would be able to control himself.

He had never been kissed before. Never. He had seen it happen many times, of course. He had seen Safie tenderly kiss her daughter, Abigail. He had seen Felix kiss Safie with passion and tenderness. He had seen Victor kiss Elizabeth. He had seen gentlemen kiss the hands of noble ladies upon first meeting them.

But he had never before shared the intimacy of a kiss with another. He had never shared _any_ kind of intimacy with another.

He had never realized how powerful a simple kiss could be. He had not expected Lena's lips to rob him of every thought, to render him weak and helpless and completely overwhelmed. Every atom in his body had cried out with pleasure and desire. With need. He had wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and pull her close, to feel her curves pressed tightly against him.

He had never known the power of desire firsthand. Now he felt like an opium addict, eyes dazed, muscles weak, thoughts blurred and confused. He wanted more, and was simultaneously terrified that the more he got, the more he would crave.

But his instincts had kicked in. In all his years of life, any measure of happiness he had experienced had immediately been followed by agony and despair. His brief time with Monsieur De Lacey, his rescue of the little girl who fell into a river, his meeting with the child, William Frankenstein. All had been followed by abject misery.

He had run. Even as he cursed himself a coward, he had run. Despite what Helena thought, he really did trust her.

But he did not trust anything else. He did not trust fate, that cruel mistress, to look kindly upon him.

When he finally stopped running, when he finally stopped to think, he realized that he had left her completely alone. He cursed himself. If he wasn't with her she couldn't sleep. It had been like that since the first night, the night she had spoken to him, when her voice had cut straight through the red haze of anger and misery that consumed him.

"_If you are here to kill me, I have the right to see your face._"

_Her logic was obviously flawed. He had killed several people and they had never once seen his hideous face, and in all his studies he had never heard of any natural human right to know the identity of one's killer._

_But it wasn't her words that stopped him. It was her tone. She sounded so calm, as if she were speaking of the weather, or the harvest. She sounded as if she was speaking to another human._

_He wanted to hate her for that, but his heart would not listen to his mind; the idea of being spoken to as if he was – dare he even think it! – a normal, intelligent man… the very idea was _intoxicating.

"_Then I must not be here to kill you, for I do not intend to show myself."_

He turned around immediately, and began his trek back through the foothills of southern France, this time at twice the speed with which he'd escaped. Thoughts of her haunted him every step of the way. Every detail of her face, her eyes, her hair… The smell of her, the taste of her lips. He cursed himself a thousand times over for ever having stepped foot in her bedchamber.

_She paused, and slowly sat up from her pillows. Long curls of pale yellow hair tumbled over her shoulders. He could see her, even in the near total darkness, for his creator had imbued him with unnaturally keen eyes._

_She was not afraid._

"_You sound remarkably intelligent for a man who steals into young women's bedchambers in the middle of the night." _

_Oddly enough, he was flattered by the compliment, even though it was embedded in an insult._

"_Have many men stolen into your bedchambers, to give you such insight?"_

"_No," she replied with a small shrug, taking his verbal hit without even a flinch. If she heard the wild fury that often accompanied his voice, she did not acknowledge it. Perhaps it was not there? He thought about that for a moment. His blood still ran hot, still electrified with the hellish energy that sustained him. His senses were open at full blast. But his mind was not a raging chaos of hate and fury._

_In fact, his mind was very much interested in this woman. Not in destroying her, or striking terror into her heart.__  
_

_His mind was interested in... talking to her._

By the time the Dubois estate came into view, the sun was rising in the eastern sky, casting golden light over the pale stone of the manor ouse. It was sunrise, and men and animals alike had begun to stir. Animals he could handle; animals liked him. It was the humans he had to avoid. He cursed himself again, retreated back into the shadows of the great, ancient trees that guarded his forest, and watched her window and waited.

"_Was I screaming?" she asked suddenly. He tilted his head, frowning. What a strange thing to ask! What a strange little human!_

"_You were… crying," he replied. This time, he spoke without any trace of mockery or disdain. He was very curious about this woman. She had been absolutely terrified when she was asleep. If it could even be called sleep; she shuddered and whimpered and twitched, as if she could see him even in her dreams and was frightened beyond reasonable thought._

_But then, the moment she awoke, that fear disappeared, and in its place he'd found a calm, clever little creature completely in charge of her environment._

_She nodded, and then glanced down at herself, at her hands. "Usually, I can't remember who or where I am after I wake up. This is unusual." She frowned. "You are most likely just a hallucination," she added, more to herself than to him._

"_I assure you, I am no hallucination," he murmured. She glanced up, in the direction of his voice, for the first time, and he flinched away instinctively. And he cursed himself for his cowardice. She couldn't possibly see him; he'd closed the drapes over her windows and half-shut the heavy brocade fabric that hung around her bed. And yet he still feared her eyes. Strong, clear eyes full of curiosity and concern._

"_There is no way for me to determine that," she said. "Hallucinations have all the appearance of reality."_

_He didn't know what to say. How could he possibly make her believe that he was real without showing himself to her? And how could he possibly show himself to her without having to kill her?_

_Because, in all honesty, he didn't _want_ to kill her. _

_He had once been a gentle creature, innocent of any crimes. His father had made him what he was today. Why should this young woman, who had no attachment to Victor and had never sought to harm him, pay for Victor's mistakes with her life?_

"_If I am here tomorrow night," he said hesitantly, "then you will know I am not a dream."_

An hour passed before he saw any sign of movement. Her younger sister, Margot, brought a lamp into the room and bounced up onto her bed to rouse her, but she was already awake.

When she stood, he could tell she hadn't slept at all. She moved slowly, not dazed from slumber but dazed from the lack of it. Margot spoke with a worried expression on her face, but Helena waved away her concern.

Much of the day passed as such; the entire family commented on her lack of energy, even some of the servants mentioned it to her in concerned tones. She gave them all that kind, appreciative smile and avoided their questions.

Then she did something she did not usually do: she came looking for him. She coerced Margot to accompany her on a walk and struck out onto one of the little paths that weaved through his forest. He followed at a careful distance, wondering what she was up to, and eventually she began to slow her pace and fall behind her sister.

"Hurry up, Lena," Margot called as she skipped along down the path. She was excited about the late-summer wildflowers that bloomed along the banks of the Bordeaux.

"I'm tired, let me take my time," Lena replied wearily. "Besides, if you get there first you'll get all the pretty flowers."

Margot was very soon out of earshot.

"I know you're there," she said in a soft voice, keeping her eyes on the trail and stepping carefully over branches and roots. He froze. Had he made a noise? No, of course not. He never made noise, not in his own woods. "I know what it feels like when you're watching me," she added. He frowned.

"I told you never to come looking for me," he growled. She stopped walking, but did not turn to face him.

"You also told me you would stay with me," she replied. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and the pain that laced it made him want to touch her so badly he had to clench his hands into tight fists to keep from moving forward.

"I will be back tonight." Even as he said it, he could hear the strain in his voice.

"Why?"

He hesitated. Why, indeed?

"Because you need to sleep."

After a moment, she said, "Yes."

"Don't get too close to the river," he commanded. He had already pulled someone from the cold, hungry grasp of the Bordeaux. He had no desire to do it again.

Lena paused, staring through the trees at the sunlight that glittered off the water of the Bordeaux.

"I won't," she said faintly. Then she smiled, and though the smile lit up her face, her gaze was sad and distant. "You know, I have never had the courage to come out here before. Not since I was a child."

He frowned, wondering at the conflict of emotions that he saw within her. "Then why did you come?"

Lena blinked. Then she shrugged. "You make me feel safe," she said simply.

He did not reply. He couldn't. Her words had stunned him silent.

She turned and continued through the woods until she reached the clearing, a small meadow blanketed by a rainbow of wildflowers and sheltered by a thick copse of ancient willows. On the other side of the floodplain, the river sparkled and danced within its banks, still swollen with snowmelt from the mountains. He remained hidden in the shadows of a large willow, watching her.

"Go," he said finally. "I will see you tonight."

"But will I see you?" she wondered.

This time, he did not smile.

"No, Helena. You will not."


	4. Invitation

_AN: This story is significantly more difficult for me to write than most, because it is set in the late 1700's, and as I'm sure you know, people thought and acted much differently back then. Please be patient when it comes to this story. I'm trying. :)_

_Also, I wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed or contacted me about this story (that means you, Tess :D), it always helps to have a little push in the right direction (and the occasionally implied, 'Update, woman! Update, damn you!'). I always try to finish what I start, so I will do my best to finish this story. Please let me know what you think! I don't know if I'm taking this in the right direction, so I need feedback!_

_Also, if you were wondering, the picture I have of the creature in my head is Peter Steele with scars. See the story thumbnail.  
_

* * *

**HELENA**

"Wake up, Lena," he commanded. His tone was soft; it pulled her gently from the realm of sleep and back into the real world. She sat up, gathering her blankets around her in a fluffy nest, all without opening her eyes. Doing everything with her eyes closed had become second nature to her when he was around.

"Have you brought me something?" She asked playfully. He was always nearby when she slept, but it was rare for him to deliberately awaken her. When he did, it was usually for a specific purpose.

"I think I have spoiled you enough already," he mused, but there was no bite to his tone. Lena grinned.

"You spoil me simply by being here," she said with a small shrug. He was quiet for a few moments. She heard the rustle of fabric as he moved closer to her.

Something touched her hand. She inhaled sharply, spreading her fingers reflexively to grasp whatever he had laid before her.

A flower stem, cool and smooth beneath her touch. Lena opened her eyes, careful to keep her gaze down on her lap, where the outline of the flower – or rather, the delicate clumps of smaller flowers – was just barely visible in the near-total darkness. She lifted them to her nose and inhaled.

"Lavender," she murmured. She could still imagine the way he smelled, though he wasn't close enough at the moment. Faint lavender and fragrant smoke, like cedar. So very male.

"It grows wild in my woods."

Lena grinned at his possessiveness, but she did not dispute it. He could have the forests – he could have the world, as far as she was concerned – so long as she could have him at night.

"Thank you," she said, closing her eyes so she could lift her head to face him. She could almost feel his smile, and wished for perhaps the millionth time that she could see that smile on his lips. She felt the familiar twist of agony in her heart as she imagined spending the rest of her life without ever seeing his face.

"Lena," he began, and then he hesitated. She waited. He sighed. "Forgive me?"

"You did nothing wrong," she assured him.

His reply was instant and sharp. "Don't be cruel, Helena," he snapped.

"I'm not being cruel," she replied, taken aback by his accusation. "I don't blame you for leaving."

He was quiet for a very long time after that.

* * *

**THE** **CREATURE**

Was this another hallucination conjured up by his cruel, hateful mind? Did she actually _not_ blame him for how he had acted the previous night?

In all the years of his life, no human on this Earth had ever sought to cast anything other than blame and hate upon him. When he had found Lena, he had been more than half mad, savage and bloodthirsty. Only the one thing he had never expected to find had managed to save him: acceptance, simple and pure. And now that he had found it, he would rather die than lose it.

He would rather die than lose her.

She sat there, tense and still, with a frown curling her beautiful lips, while his thoughts raged and crashed in his head like a violent tempest. She didn't say anything because she knew him well enough now to know that he was struggling with something he was not ready to explain.

"Why?" He demanded. It was all he could say, though many other words ached to pour from his lips. Fear held him back. Fear always held him back.

Lena blushed. He could see the gentle flush in her skin even in the near darkness, and the sight calmed him, amused him.

"I kissed you," she said softly. "Not the other way around." His pulse quickened at her words, because her words brought forth images from the night before. Her fingertips trailing like water over his skin, a balm that soothed his despair and swept all thoughts out of his mind instantly, so that when her lips touched his, all he felt for those earth-shattering moments was pure unfiltered bliss. And then right after that, instinct kicked in. In all his life, any happiness he'd ever experienced had been followed immediately by misery. So he ran. He ran so that he would not have to deal with the pain that always followed joy. He ran so that he would not lose his mind when she finally, inevitably rejected him.

And he ran so that he would not kiss her back.

"I am the one who should be begging your forgiveness," she whispered. Then she closed her eyes and bowed her head. "You were right about me."

The sadness in her voice made his chest tighten, as if his heart was a mirrored reflection of hers, and he felt whatever pain she felt, and whatever joy.

He moved closer, so he could rest his palms on the edge of her bed, and gently pulled back the gauzy curtains that shielded him from her piercing gaze.

She kept her eyes closed, though she surely heard him moving. The muscles in her shoulders tensed slightly, as they always did when he came near.

"Lena, I have been wrong about you from the very beginning." From the first time he saw her, when he assumed she would be vain and spoiled, to the first time he had felt her touch, when he was sure she would reject him for his deformities. She was, he realized with a slight shock, the very definition of humanity that he had first imagined, back when he was innocent of any crimes.

Ah, if only he had met her first! How different would he be now? Would he be gentle and kind? Would all the bitterness and anger still dwell within him?

"Does that mean I am forgiven?" she asked cautiously.

"Am I?"

"Absolutely," she said immediately.

He felt a smile tug at his lips, and he did not fight it. "Then so are you."

And for the first time all night, he was gifted with a true smile. It made his heart pound in his head, that smile. Those lips.

"You should go to sleep," he said quickly, looking away so that his thoughts would not stray too sinful.

"I'm not tired," she replied. He grinned. How many times now had she said that exact phrase to him? He had lost count. "Have you ever been to England?" She added.

He tilted his head down at her. He had been almost everywhere on this godforsaken continent, and the one below it as well. But that was back when he was running from Victor. Well, no, that wasn't accurate; it was back when he was leading Victor on a wild goose chase that would consume and eventually destroy the man who had created him.

"Yes," he stated. She raised her eyebrows in mild shock.

"Did you like it?"

His amusement faded slightly. "I suppose I did," he admitted. England's weather was, if not cheerful, at least much more forgiving than the harsh climate of the Arctic.

"We're going there soon. My family and I," she noted. He kept silent, waiting. "We go every year. My mother insists."

"Your mother is English," he interjected. "Why would she not wish to visit her native country?"

Lena sighed. "That's not the point. We always go to London for the Season. It will be months before we return to France."

He smiled, amusement flickering alive within him once more as he realized what she was asking.

"Months? How on Earth will you survive for so long without me?"

Lena grinned, a mixture of laughter and scolding in her voice as she said, "Don't tease me, my friend. Will you come with me to England or no?"

He was grateful of the darkness that hid him from her eyes, for he was sure he was grinning like a fool. But he quickly tamed his expression and his temper; he would follow her to the ends of the Earth if he had to, but if he was discovered with her in _London_, the hub of English culture, one of the largest cities on Earth, it would ruin her reputation, if not her life. Could he risk it? She had lived most of her life with her night terrors, surely she could handle a few months with them now.

"I will have to think about it, Lena," he said in a soft voice. Instantly, all amusement faded from her face. He felt his heart fall with her expression. "There are many more people in London."

"I see," she murmured. Her eyes slid open, and he took a step back. "A greater chance of being discovered."

"I did not say no," he said defensively. A smile flickered on her lips, swept away by sadness and growing exhaustion. She looked down at the lavender in her hand.

"We are leaving in three days," she said softly.

"Then I have three days to decide," he replied. Three days to convince himself that it would be in her best interest for him to stay here, far away from London and far away from Lena. She had become a constant temptation, made worse by the knowledge that she would not try to stop him.

"I will do my best to convince you," she whispered. He tried to ignore the smile curling her lips. Heat flushed his body, and immediately recalled the memory of her fingertips sliding over his skin, through his hair, over his scars. The touch of her lips to his.

He closed his eyes.

Three days was not long enough to overcome temptation.


	5. Restraint

_AN: If you've read any of my other stories, you already know that I'm really bad about disappearing for long periods of time and then popping back up out of nowhere. But if you're unaware of this, I apologize. I've had a rough semester in college, and things have been conspiring against my creativity. I hope this relatively long chapter might make it up to you. :)_

* * *

**HELENA**

Three days. Would that be enough time to convince him? Was he so heartless, that he would seriously consider leaving her alone for months, vulnerable to all the horrors of her dreams? Surely not. Surely he would see that he was her only hope for surviving London. She had slept so well in the past several months that she had lost her ability to withstand the insomnia and hallucinations that always followed her nightmares. That was _his_ fault.

Helena frowned down at her painting, lost in the memory of the night before. The sunlight, dappled by the maple tree under which she was sitting, played across her arms and the back of her neck, warm and soothing. The sprig of lavender he had brought her was tucked securely in her braid, and the gentle brush of the wind surrounded her with its scent. His presence was a constant now; he was somewhere close by, watching. Her faceless, nameless guardian.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what he looked like, tried to put together a picture in her mind of what she had felt through her hands.

It was no use. His face would not take shape. Lena let out a frustrated sigh and opened her eyes. The view before her was the same as the view from her bedroom window: gently rolling fields dotted with sheds and cottages, and beyond that, the wild forests of France. Well, they weren't really wild forests. There was no part of France that was truly 'wild' in this day and age, but Lena liked to think of them as wild, because she thought her companion might be more at home in untamed wilderness.

Margot was sitting several feet away, laboring in disapproving silence over the tangled ball of string that had, only moments before, been attached to her kite.

"Gogo, come sit in the shade," Lena suggested. "If you get burned, Maman will have my head."

Margot ignored her.

"And she'll never let you fly that thing again," Lena added in a mild voice. The eleven-year-old finally glanced up, frowned at Lena, and shoved herself up from the grass to join her sister beneath the maple tree. They worked alongside each other in silence for several minutes, but Margot's patience quickly waned. Lena glanced up from her painting just in time to see Margot hurl the ball of string off towards one of the gardening sheds.

"Why do we have to go to London, Lena?" Margot asked after heaving a deep, long-suffering sigh.

"Because Maman was born there, and she misses Aunt Patricia and Aunt Samantha."

"But it's so rainy. And there are far too many people, if you ask me."

Lena smiled, and glanced up towards the shadowed line of trees bordering the fields. If he was there, watching her, as her instincts said he was, then she could only hope he hadn't heard Margot's words. She didn't need her own sister's opinion helping him win this argument.

"It's not always rainy," she said, sliding her eyes back down to her watercolor palette. She scanned the myriad swirls of color and wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, what color his eyes were. They wouldn't be hazel or green, both were far too common for him. She felt that secret smile tug her lips again.

"Most of the time, it is," Margot said with a pout. Lena rolled her eyes.

"Yes, well, _most_ of the time, you're a– " A voice behind them cut her off before she could deliver her playful insult.

"You both still bicker like little fishwives, I see. Good to know at least _that_ hasn't changed."

Lena felt excitement jolt through her, and she and Margot both leaped to their feet and whirled around to face the tall, handsome young man striding across the lawn towards them.

"Gregoire's back!" Margot shouted, throwing her arms out and running full tilt towards him with a childish squeal. Gregoire knelt down and pulled her up in a tight hug, laughing. Lena grinned as he set Margot down and approached. His hair was lighter than hers now, a light golden blonde, shot through with white and gold, and his skin was several shades darker, courtesy of the Egyptian sun.

"Hello, Lena," he said with a smile, and Lena gave up acting the adult and threw her arms around him with a laugh.

"Welcome home, Greg," she said warmly. "Margot was absolutely desolate without you."

"Yes, I was," Margot chimed. Then her eyes lit up. "What did you bring me, Greg? You brought me something, right?"

Gregoire laughed, and reached out to ruffle Margot's long chestnut curls.

"Of course I brought you something, Gogo. Come inside and I'll give it to you."

Margot and Gregoire turned to start back towards the house, and Lena bent down to pick up her art supplies.

"Leave them, Lena," Greg said. "We'll be coming right back out after I lavish gifts upon the two of you."

Lena grinned and shrugged. She stood to join them, and movement caught her eye. Instantly, her gaze darted towards the tree line. Nothing. Only shadow and wilderness. And, she noted suddenly, the blatant absence of a certain ball of tangled string.

Lena frowned. She glanced over at Greg. "Go on ahead, I'll be there in a minute."

Greg shrugged, met Margot's eyes, and with an unspoken signal, they both started sprinting towards the house, racing across the lawn, laughing and taunting each other as they went.

Lena narrowed her eyes and started walking. She was only fifty feet or so from the gardening shed, near where Margot had thrown her kite string in a fit of childish frustration. If he was anywhere, he'd be in there. But why had he risked being seen just to grab a ball of string? It was ludicrous! What if Margot had seen him? What if _Greg_ had seen him?

The shed itself was not old. It was built in the English style, as her Mother liked it; it was decorative and disguised very cleverly as a small cottage. It wasn't, of course. It was where the gardeners kept their hoes and rakes and trowels and bags of flower and grass seed.

The door was slightly ajar. Lena felt her pulse quicken. He was definitely in there. He had to be. No one else could have gotten that string without being noticed first. Only he had that ability.

She put her hand on the smooth oak door and edged it open slightly without looking in.

"That was very impressive," she said softly, hoping she sounded calm. Her pulse was thundering in her ears. She'd never had the chance to talk to him in daylight, except for yesterday during her walk in the woods. The idea of it sent shivers of delight flowing across her skin.

She heard movement, very slight, just the rustle of fabric as he moved, and then a large hand shot out from inside the shed and latched onto her wrist. She only had time to notice tanned skin and the slash of a thick white scar across his knuckles. A heartbeat later, he had yanked her into the darkness, clamped one hand over her eyes and the other around her waist, and kicked the door shut. Lena felt her nerves tingle with awareness, even as her mind struggled to understand his actions. He pulled her back against him, holding her tightly.

He was incredibly strong, and large. Even now, even when she could _feel_ the anger radiating from him, she couldn't help but notice the sleek, hard muscles, now rigid with fury, that she was pressed against. She closed her eyes, and when her eyelashes brushed the palm of his hand, he twitched.

"You're so warm_,_" she whispered.

"I should have known," he growled suddenly, voice rumbling through his chest as he lowered his head to put his lips close to her ear. His tone was choked with fury and something else. Jealousy? His arm tightened around her. "I should have known that you would turn out like the rest of them. That you would throw me away when something better came along."

She lifted her hand to the big arm that was wrapped around her waist and slid her fingers over his, intertwining them. He froze.

"Release me," she said softly.

After a moment's hesitation, he loosened his grip. Lena took a deep breath, but instead of stepping away from him, she leaned back against him, resting her head back on his chest. She heard his breath catch in his throat.

"I stay with you of my own accord," she said, drawing his arm back around her waist.

"Now, what is it you think I have done?" she wondered, reaching up to gently pull his hand from her eyes. She opened them. There was very little light within the shed, but it would be enough to see his silhouette if she were facing him. It would be enough to make him uncomfortable.

"He is beautiful, Lena," her companion whispered sadly. "Is it because you can see him, and I will not let you see me? Is it because I am so hideous?"

Lena's eyes went wide. "Who?" She paused a moment, and then, when the realization hit, she let out a short, bemused laugh. "Are you talking about Gregoire?" she demanded.

He jolted, abruptly taking a step back from her. "_That _is your brother?"

"Of course it is," Lena snapped. She turned towards him, closing her eyes as she moved. "How could you think I would betray you like that?" She had every right to be angry with him. He'd put them both in jeopardy, he'd snapped at her and accused her of throwing him away.

But she couldn't bring herself to be angry. She just wanted to be near him, to touch him. It was so rare. He never touched her when she was in bed. He might _never_ have touched her had she not kissed him.

Even when she had gone for that walk yesterday, he had not gotten close to her. Even when he'd given her the sprig of lavender, his fingertips had not brushed hers.

She could be angry with him later, when she was sure she wouldn't be losing him in two days. But not now.

"I'm sorry, Helena," he said quietly. "I did not realize who he was."

She said nothing, just walked towards him, slowly, careful not to trip and making sure to keep her eyes closed, until she was standing toe-to-toe with him. He had gone very still, like cornered prey.

She reached up and slid her hands over his bare chest, over scars and thick, curly hair. He flinched and sucked his breath in through his teeth, but he didn't back away. Lena tilted her head back slightly, and slid her hands up further, over the curves of his collarbones, and the soft skin of his neck, until she reached his face. He remained frozen, but a groan escaped his lips as she cupped his face in her hands.

She leaned against him, felt the heat of his body sear her everywhere his skin touched hers.

"I will only forgive you if you kiss me," she whispered.

He laughed breathlessly.

"I cannot do that, Lena," he said in a slow, controlled voice.

"Please," she begged. "Please, _mon cher_."

"It will destroy us both," he said. His tone almost matched hers, a plea for mercy.

"I don't care," she replied instantly. "You know I don't."

He tensed, as if he did not quite know what to do with himself. Lena didn't want to imagine the war going on inside his head, she just hoped with all her might that it would have the right outcome.

And then, slowly, he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers in a light, soft kiss, his entire body rigid with steely self-control.

Her nerves exploded with pleasure, and her body ached fiercely for his touch, for his kiss. Lena whimpered, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning against him to avoid sinking to the floor.

Something snapped in him. A growl, deep and primitive and full of promises, rumbled through his chest. Instantly, his arms were around her waist, and he was lifting her up, against him, to meet him as he pressed his lips firmly, hungrily against hers. Lena let herself relax in his arms, drowning in the sensations that overwhelmed her. Everything felt alive and so _right_. They were the center of the universe. Every touch, every movement he made sent a ripple of pleasure through her so intense that she thought she might cry.

His mouth was soft and warm, and she could feel the scar that cut through his bottom lip. It wasn't rough, and not at all unpleasant. When he broke the kiss for a quick breath, Lena leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his bottom lip, to the scar. He froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid. Lena frowned. Had she done something wrong?

"Good God, Helena," he rasped. Then he was lowering her to the ground, as carefully as if she were made of eggshells. Every muscle in his body trembled with restraint. "You must leave. _Now_."

"No," she said. He pried her arms from around his neck. "I'm not leaving."

"Lena," he growled softly, and he lifted his hands to her face and gently brushed his thumbs across her jawline. She felt another whimper escape her throat. "You have to leave before I lose control again."

"Why do you keep pushing me away?" she wondered, shivering as the rough pad of his thumb brushed over her bottom lip, pleasure tingling through her entire body.

"Because," he began, and swept one arm beneath her knees and lifted her as easily as if she weighed no more than a feather. He carried her to the door of the shed. In the distance, she could hear voices calling out her name. He sat her down, fingers brushing over her skin reverently, before placing one big hand on the small of her back and pushing her out of the shed.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, and then he closed the door behind her.

Lena's eyes shot open, wide with surprise and anger. She started to turn to berate him, maybe even barge back into the shed, when a voice startled her back to the real world.

"Lena! Where did you disappear to?" Margot demanded imperiously. "Greg won't let us have any of our presents until you come in!"

Lena managed a shaky smile as her curly haired baby sister came closer. "Sorry, _mon chou_," she said. "I went looking for your ball of string. I think an animal made off with it."

Margot's face fell. She stared down at the spot where she'd thrown the string, eyes wandering in search of whatever evil little creature may have taken it. She glanced up, then behind Lena, and her eyes went wide.

"There it is!" Margot danced forward, right up to the door of the garden shed, and sitting there beside Lena was the missing ball of string, perfectly wrapped and free of knots. "Oh, thank you for fixing it for me, Lena!" Margot turned and wrapped Lena in a strong, suffocating hug, and Lena felt herself smile.

"Come on, Gogo," she murmured to her sister. "Let's go get spoiled rotten, shall we?" Margot squealed her agreement and led the way, racing off back to the house. Lena walked more slowly, turning back once to gaze at the garden shed. She didn't even have the energy to be mad at him for his parting comment. She would correct him tonight. She would make him see that he _must_ come to London with her, or she would go mad from lack of sleep and lack of him.

Lena sighed and turned back towards the house, maliciously hoping that he was suffering as much as she was at that moment.


	6. Anger

_AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed/favorited/alerted this story while I was curled up in a fetal position desperately fighting off writer's block. As always, I welcome any and all feedback. _

* * *

**THE** **CREATURE**

He had never before been thankful that he did not have a name. But as he watched Lena walk across the lawn – storm across it, really – he sent his father a silent, bittersweet thanks. If he had a name, and Lena had used it in her pleas… if she had said _one_ more word, he would have abandoned all control and lost his mind, and with it, all the honor and integrity he had struggled to build within himself since his return to humankind.

Eight years ago, his father had died on a cold, dark ship in the Arctic, surrounded by strangers, unloved and unmissed.

Victor had been flawed, terribly flawed, in his heart and in his mind. Those flaws had manifested themselves on his son's body, and then Victor's death had nearly destroyed his son's mind. He had been robbed of his vengeance, and at the same time, robbed of any chance of ever receiving Victor's forgiveness.

Half-mad with rage and sorrow, he had told those strangers that he would destroy himself alongside his father's body in a funeral pyre.

It was the only lie he had ever spoken. He had burned his father's body, yes, and he had spent several years travelling through Russia and Eastern Europe, learning new languages, acquiring new skills, and hiding from humanity. He became wild, and angry, and his travels inevitably led him South, as he began to become consumed by the need for comfort, with a burning desire to be home, to be in the only place where he had ever known any measure of happiness.

France.

He sighed, lifted his hands up and held them out before him, examining them in the dusky half-light of the gardening shed. In the eight years since his father's death, life had begun to reclaim the creature's body, a fact that had at first frightened him, but one that he had soon come to accept. He was built from death, but years of life had repaired the damage that both death and Victor Frankenstein had dealt. His scars, once red and painful, had faded to thick white lines. His skin, once pale, wrinkled and jaundiced had, through years of sun exposure and exercise, darkened and grown taut over muscle and sinew.

He no longer looked so blatantly dead, but he was still a monster. And not just because his eyes were still an unnatural, golden yellow. Not just because his skin was patched in places like some sort of hellish quilt, darker or paler depending on the corpse from which it had originated. No. Something deeper and more primitive than his vanity, his fear of rejection, kept him from showing himself to Lena. The deeply rooted knowledge that he was an unnatural creature, and a murderer, condemned by a hateful Father and an uncaring God, kept him hidden in the shadows. He did not deserve the light.

He leaned back against the door of the shed and closed his eyes, lifting his hands to his face. To the scar on his lip that she had kissed so reverently. When he had shoved her through the door of the shed, and whispered his departing words, he had seen the flash of anger in her eyes, in the curl of her lips. She would be sure to bring it up tonight.

He gritted his teeth and tried to push thoughts of Lena out of his head. The way she had felt, pressed up against him, the sounds she made when he kissed her. God in heaven, she was an intoxicating creature, and she didn't even know what that meant. She did not – _could_ not – understand why he had to keep pushing her away as he did.

He knew what society expected of Helena. But society's rigid standards were not what stilled him when he so ached to leap upon her and devour her.

He glanced through the window again, to be sure that no one was watching or passing by. The house lay still in the afternoon sunlight, mocking him with its elegant lines and glittering windows. He frowned at the manor, and carefully made his way out of the shed, across the small patch of grass to the edge of the forest, and disappeared within it.

His home was a shadowed glen, two miles from the Dubois household, hidden deep within the woods. Once there, he settled himself down on a mattress of pine needles, and closed his eyes with a sigh. If he was going to spend the night arguing with Lena, he needed all the rest he could get.

* * *

**HELENA**

It was past midnight when she finally heard the telltale sounds of his presence. Lena stayed very still, fought to keep her breathing steady and deep, and waited. Whispers of fear still lingered in her body, fading echoes from the terror that had ripped through her an hour earlier. She had not been sleeping well these past few weeks, and that lack of rest had exacerbated her night terrors.

She had spent a great deal of time wondering at the fact that she slept better when he was with her. When she was a child, even her mother's calming presence could not free her from the grip of her nightmares. Physicians came from every corner of the civilized world to examine her, to watch her sleep. They gave her sleeping tonics, exotic herbs, fold remedies, even brandy and cognac. And while the medicines always put her right to sleep, they could never keep the nightmares at bay.

Her parents had long since despaired of ever seeing her cured, and they had done their best to comfort her on those long nights when the terrors were at their worst.

It had been Lena who had decided that she must be moved to the farthest wing of the house, away from the rest of her family, so that when she screamed, it would not wake them. It had been Lena who refused to keep a lady's maid in the servant's quarters that adjoined her bedchamber.

It had been Lena who had created the perfect setting for this strange and wonderful relationship.

"I heard you screaming," he whispered, and Lena felt the brush of his fingertips down her bare arm. She turned her body towards his touch, unconsciously craving more. He chuckled and withdrew his hand. "I thought you might be awake."

Lena frowned at him, or in what she suspected to be his general direction. "If you heard me screaming, why didn't you come sooner?"

"I did," he replied, and she could hear the rustle of his cloak as he sat down in the chair next to her, the one carefully hidden behind the layers of heavy fabric that surrounded her bed. "Your brother was downstairs in the library. When you screamed, he came to make sure you were alright. I could not join you until he went to bed."

Lena smiled at the note of jealousy in his voice.

"Gregoire cannot make them go away, _mon cher_," she reminded him. He chuckled, and the sound made Lena's heart ache with the need to see him. To touch him. The smile faded from her lips. "Please come to England," she begged. The sudden change of topic brought on an instant, palpable silence. "Please do not make me suffer the entire summer without you."

He was quiet for a long moment, and then she heard the sound of his chair sliding back as he stood. He started pacing. Lena had to work very hard to keep from opening her eyes to see if she could follow his shadow.

"You are making this very difficult for me, Helena," he said in a low voice. "It would be incredibly dangerous for the both of us. I do not know the city. You do not know the servants. If we were caught…" He trailed off into silence, as if speaking the words aloud would bring down such a curse upon them.

"We would not be caught," Lena replied, ignoring his use of her full name, which was always a clear indicator that his temper was on the rise. "You are a ghost. If you do not want to be seen, you are not seen. The servants know that I do not keep a maid, and they do not come near my bedroom. My nightmares have always frightened them." She sat up, allowing the blankets fall around her waist. She folded her legs beneath her and waited, idly drawing the ribbon that tied her nightgown at her neck through her fingers.

Suddenly, he was there, right next to her, standing at the side of the bed. "Stop that," he snapped, and Lena felt his warm hand on hers for a brief, glorious instant, as he yanked her fingers away from the ribbon at her throat. Then his touch was gone. "Do not think to try and manipulate me through lust, Helena. You will only succeed in angering me."

"I was not trying to manipulate you," Lena replied, shocked by his sudden irritability.

He gave a short bark of laughter. "And in the shed today, when you would not forgive me unless I kissed you? What was that if not overt manipulation?"

"Desperation," she replied instantly, frowning in the direction of his voice. "Manipulation implies calculation, and you know very well that I cannot think straight when you are around."

This time he did not laugh.

"It is instinctive for you," he said. "Temptation is instinctive in all women."

Lena's mouth dropped open. "You think that because I am a woman I am some sort of… of _harlot_?!"

He sighed. "I do not think you are a harlot, Helena. I think that you are, by nature, seductive."

"That is absurd!" Lena snapped. "Of all people, I never expected this kind of chauvinism from _you._"

"Enough," he growled, pacing furiously alongside her bed. "I am not going to argue with you on the nature of women. I am far too ignorant, and you are too sheltered."

Helena's hands twitched, longing to grab the nearest hard object and hurl it towards him. Her heart was racing in her chest, and her face was flushed hot with anger. She had not felt such strength of emotion in years. It was alien to her. It frightened her. Suddenly, she wanted to scream at him, to claw at his eyes with her nails, to break something over his head.

_You have no idea what I have been through,_ she screamed in her mind. Her hands trembled with anger, and forced herself to remain still, her voice soft.

"If your sole purpose for coming here tonight was to insult me, then _get_ _out_," she said, her voice laced with venom. "You think I am sheltered? You have no idea what I have suffered, and I will _not_ be blamed for something I did not do. You are so eager to think ill of me, so take your own advice and _go_."

"I think nothing of you that is not justified," he said, harsh and quiet. "You would have me be your slave if I allowed it. You excel in getting your way, especially when it comes to me."

Instantly, Lena threw back the covers and leapt out of her bed, her eyes wide open and blazing with fury. He froze, a few feet in front of her, a shadow within a shadow.

"If you want to blame me for something, blame me for being an infatuated fool," she snapped, taking a step towards him. "But don't you _dare_ blame me for your own weakness, for your inability to trust me, and your bull-headed stubbornness." She took another step towards him, but he did not back away. He remained still and silent. "You are the one who denies me, who rejects me at every turn. You are the one who pushes me away. If _you_ are so eager to be rid of me, then _leave_." She stopped, and waited to see if he would leave her then, and cast her into darkness forever. But he did not move.

The anger drained out of her, as if the words she had spoken had bled her of all her fury and hurt. She walked up to him and grabbed fistfuls of his soft cloak, as if she could possibly hold him there against his will. "But if you're hoping that I will push you away, you are wrong. Do not make the mistake of thinking that I will let you go easily," she said through gritted teeth. "Because I won't."

_I can't_.

The world seemed to freeze around them, as seconds ticked away in motionless silence.

And then he sighed.

"You will be the death of me, Lena," he said quietly, and he reached out and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly. Lena felt heat flood through her, focusing on the places where her body was pressed tightly against his. She closed her eyes, pressed her head against his chest, and listened to the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "I cannot think straight when I'm around you. I did not mean to be cruel."

Lena sighed. "I know," she replied simply. "Men always act stupid around women."

He chuckled, and the sound vibrated through her. "I've noticed."

Lena could feel his hesitation, she could feel him withdrawing from her.

"Say it," she whispered.

He sighed. "You have made me a better man, you know."

Lena closed her eyes, and tightened her arms around his waist. "Don't be a coward," she said, ignoring the tears that were burning in her eyes. "Say it."

He reached up and brushed his fingers through her hair, the gesture so tender and loving that Lena couldn't hold back her sob.

"I'm sorry, Helena," he whispered, "but I cannot come with you."


	7. Sleep

_**Author's Note**: A new chapter within six months of my last update? It's a miracle! PS – If you review, I update faster…_

* * *

**HELENA**

"_Lena, reveille."_ Margot's voice cut through the gray haze that now passed for sleep in Helena. "_Nous sommes ici!_" The carriage rocked to a halt, and Lena opened her eyes. _Wake up, we're here!_

"In English, please, Gogo," their mother chided.

Margot was already standing, pushing past Lena's skirts, waiting for the coachman to open the door and help her out. Their mother reached over and brushed her hand across Lena's forehead.

"You haven't been sleeping well," she noted in a worried voice.

Lena nodded. _I haven't been sleeping at all_. She winced when the door opened and bright sunlight poured into the carriage. Of all the days for London to be its usual dreary, sunless self, of course today would not be one of them. Today, there were no clouds in the sky, and the spring sun glittered on everything, compounding the headache that was forming at the back of Lena's skull.

"Go upstairs and rest," her mother suggested. "I'll have dinner sent up to you."

"Thank you, _Maman_," Lena murmured, grasping the gloved hand of the coachman and stepping gingerly down onto the cobblestone street. Margot was waiting by the door, tapping her little foot impatiently as Lena approached.

"_Tu es malade, Lena._" Margot observed.

"I'm not sick, Gogo," Lena replied in a tired voice. "And _Maman_ asked you to speak English."

Margot frowned, but she refrained from commenting in the face of her sister's obvious weariness. Instead, she turned and marched through the front door and up to the nursery, where her governess awaited.

"Mother, you spoil that child rotten," Greg noted in his flawless English accent, appearing next to them just in time to take their mother's hand on his elbow and lead her inside. Lena rolled her eyes. Greg prided himself on his ability to sound perfectly English. But he was always quick to fall back into his accent around beautiful, young Englishwomen.

"_Lena, tu vas bien_?" Lena's father asked. Lena turned to squint up at the viscount as he rounded the carriage. He and Greg had ridden on horseback, so they did not know that she had dozed fitfully for most of the journey.

"I'm fine, Papa," she assured him, taking his arm and accompanying him through the front door and into their London house.

"Welcome back, my lord," Gerald greeted, dipping his head and taking her father's hat and gloves. "Lady Helena," he nodded to her, and Lena handed the older man her gloves.

"Thank you, Gerald," her father said with a wave of dismissal.

"Papa, are we still going to the Opera tonight?" Lena wondered as she made her way towards the stairs.

"_Oui, ma petite_," he replied distractedly. "If you would like to."

Lena sighed. "Perhaps."

Her room was exactly as she remembered it, decorated in hues of blue and lavender, and the sharp, bitter sadness that she felt at the sight of it brought tears to her eyes.

"You stupid man," she cursed at the empty room, throwing her hat and shawl down on a chair and throwing herself – in a very unladylike fashion – into the bed. "You are a coward," she said to the bed's canopy, "a miserable, stubborn coward."

She did not intend to stay in bed very long. If she let herself doze, she would eventually fall into a deeper sleep, the kind in which her nightmares always surfaced. But she couldn't help it. She hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in over a week. Not since the night he told her he wasn't coming to England with her.

"Imbecile," she muttered, as her eyes started to flutter, and darkness enveloped her.

_The world was dead. And black. And empty. Everywhere she turned, she saw nothing. Emptiness. It surrounded her, hunting her, pressing down on her until she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move. She tried to run. She tried to call out for help. She couldn't._

_Shadows within shadows, flickering around the edges of her vision. Something was there, in the darkness, watching her. Waiting. It smelled like blood._

_Where was she? What world was this? Who had stolen all the light? She was not herself anymore, she was a child again, alone and scared and surrounded by monsters in the dark._

_Abigail? Gregoire? Where are you?_

_A rasping voice from behind her. Harsh and feral. Growling, seething, ready to strike._

_The terror filled her, the blind, unthinking terror. It was coming closer, and she could not move. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she screamed and cried and begged, she could not lift her feet. She could not move._

_And it was getting closer…_

"Lena? Lena! Are you alright? Answer me! Wake up!" Gregoire's voice, muted and distant. Someone was pounding on the door. Everything was quiet, like a thick blanket had fallen over the entire world. Someone was screaming. Far away. She opened her eyes, and the world was blurry and unfocused, but she was not afraid. She was not shaking with blind, uncontrollable terror. She was calm.

Because he was there, kneeling over her, cloaked in shadows. She knew his silhouette as well as she knew her own reflection. He was there, smoothing her hair back from her forehead with large, warm hands, whispering calming words in that gentle, deep voice. Her mind was too blurry, too heavy with weariness, to speak, or even move.

He bent closer to her, and brushed his lips over hers in a featherlight kiss. Strands of long, black hair fell around his face. He smelled like lavender. Lena wanted to cry and scream and throw her arms around him all at once, but she couldn't move.

"I'm so sorry, Lena," he whispered.

And then he was gone. A ghost. A dream. A figment of her over-tired mind.

Lena shot upright as the blanket of silence that had surrounded her dissolved, and the sound of Gregoire pounding on the door assaulted her senses.

"Stop that racket!" she commanded. "I'm awake!"

Instantly, Greg opened the door and rushed into the room. Their father followed close on his heels.

"_Mon Dieu_, Helena, you sounded like you were burning alive!" Greg snapped, frustrated by his own anxiety. "You can't keep scaring me like that! I'll have a conniption and die before I'm thirty!"

"Thank you for your concern, Greg," Lena murmured, a hint of a smile curling her lips.

Their father kneeled down by the bed and took Lena's hands in his.

"Are you alright, _ma petite_?" He asked in a soft voice. Lena frowned up at him. Lines of worry creased his dark, aristocratic brow. "You haven't had one that bad in years."

"I'm fine, Papa," she said quietly, glancing around the room for signs of her companion's presence. She could find none. Not a single object was out of place in the room. She could not smell even the slightest hint of lavender.

She felt her shoulders drop under the weight of disappointment. Her father placed a kiss on her forehead and stood.

"We are leaving for the Opera in two hours. I will let your mother know you'll not be attending," he said in a soft voice.

Lena's thoughts rushed through her head, piling on top of one another in their haste and panic. If she stayed here while her family went to the Opera, she would go mad. She would search the house for him, and cry when she could not find him. God help her, she might even fall asleep again. And she could not let that happen.

"Wait!" Her father froze at the door. "I want to come with you. I don't want to be alone."

Her father's expression darkened into concern. "Are you sure?"

"_Oui, _Papa_._"

"Will you be able to handle _la masque_?"

Lena grinned at her father's nickname for the English _beau monde_. She let her expression fade into a look of supreme, haughty boredom.

"Of course, Father. I am more than capable of handling the _beau monde_," she said in the same flawless English accent that Gregoire was so fond of.

A smile flickered over her father's face, and he nodded. "Very well," he said with a nod, and he turned and left the room, his boots echoing along the marble floors in the hallway.

Gregoire paused at the door, and sent Lena a frown. "I know I've been away for a long time, Lena," he said slowly, "but I'm still your brother. You'd tell me if something was wrong, _oui_?"

Lena wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Tell Gregoire that a man visited her at night, a man she'd never even seen? Yes. That would go over so _very_ well.

"Of course, Greg. Will you have one of the servants fetch Eleanor to help me dress?" She pushed herself off the bed and began straightening her travel cloak.

Gregoire, who knew enough about women to know when he had been dismissed from one's presence, merely shook his head and left the room.


	8. Masquerade

_AN: Thank you SO MUCH to all of my reviewers! I was worried that people had given up on me. You are all wonderful. You're better than wonderful. You're fantabulous. You're scrumdiddlyumptious. Enjoy the new chapter, my loves!_

* * *

**HELENA**

Lena had always looked forward to the Season when she was younger. Especially two years ago, the year she had made her come out. She'd been eighteen, dazzled by the decadence of night life in the _beau monde_. Her mother had spent frightening amounts of money on her, and paraded her about in demure white dresses accented with delicate, silky French lace.

It had been a wonderful year, filled with giggling and flirting and making friends, and dancing with young, handsome bachelors.

One young, handsome bachelor in particular.

Lena smiled wanly at the memory of dark, seductive Jacob, keeping her head turned towards the window of the carriage to avoid any pestering questions from her brother, who was all too eager to ask after her well-being at any random moment.

That disaster was in the past. Jacob was surely married by now, or shot dead in a duel, and good riddance, too. Lena didn't want him anymore. She knew exactly who she wanted.

He just wouldn't have her.

She watched as lampposts slid by the carriage window, and followed strangers with her eyes. There were so many of them, of all age and size and color. Did they ever wake up screaming in the middle of the night, hallucinating about strange men in their bedrooms?

The carriage rocked to a gentle halt, and the door opened to reveal the bright façade of the Covent Garden Royal Opera House. Her father stepped out, and then handed her mother down onto the sidewalk. Gregoire followed, and offered his hand to Lena. She straightened as she stepped down from the carriage, glancing around her with an arrogant little smile on her face.

"Ah, so _la masque_ begins," Gregoire noted as he saw her expression. Lena gave him a quick wink, and he laughed.

They followed their parents up the stairs towards the opera house, and Lena allowed herself a quick glance up and down the street. People were everywhere, unloading from their carriages, walking along the sidewalks, lingering at the street corners.

Out of the corner of her eye, quick movement caught her attention. She turned her head just slightly and glanced towards the movement. She saw a shadow in the crowd, the silhouette of a tall man with broad shoulders, moving away from her. She whipped her head around to follow him, but he was gone. Disappeared. A ghost.

A figment of her imagination.

But she would know that silhouette anywhere.

"_Mon dieu_," she whispered, letting out a shaky breath.

"_Ça va_?" Came Gregoire's quiet voice. _You okay?_

"I'm fine," Lena replied instantly, drawing herself up to her full height and plastering an elegant smile on her face. "Just get me to the box. I need to sit down."

Of course, it would not be that easy. Two steps inside the front door, a voice rang out ahead of them.

"Greg! I say, Gregoire!" A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, appeared in front of them, and shook hands with Gregoire as if they were lifelong friends. He was handsome, Lena gave him that much. His dark brown hair was longer than was fashionable, and tied back at his neck with a blue ribbon. Gregoire grinned.

"Hello, Monty," he said in a warm, low voice. "Good to see you again. May I introduce my sister, Helena?"

Lena offered her hand, and the young man instantly bowed low over it, placing a kiss on her gloved fingers.

"The Earl of Montford, at your service, mademoiselle," he said, in a completely different voice than the one with which he had greeted Greg. This voice was lower, softer, and almost too seductive for propriety. Then he glanced up, and his laughing brown eyes met hers, and Lena couldn't help herself. She smiled.

"A pleasure to meet you, my lord," she said with a nod. If he was surprised by her perfectly cultured accent, he did not show it. Most French nobility took great care to keep their accented English as a point of pride, but the Dubois children were direct descendents of the Duke of Adinborough through their mother. And they did not let anyone forget it.

"Excuse us, Monty," Greg said with a charming smile. "I must get my sister to safety before more of my friends make an appearance."

Monty threw back his head and laughed, drawing several pairs of eyes towards them.

"Alas, I cannot make excuses for them. Nor shall I try. It was lovely meeting you, my lady." Lena smiled and nodded her farewell to the earl, and allowed Greg to escort her through the reception hall and up the grand staircase. Eyes followed them everywhere, the golden Dubois children. They had inherited their mother's fair hair, though Lena's was more of a pale brown. Really, the only thing that kept her hair from being downright drab was the white-gold highlights she had inherited from her mother.

Greg, on the other hand, was quite the angel. He had their father's elegant, masculine face, and their mother's blonde hair, which had lightened to pale gold thanks to the bright Italian sun.

"I wonder, how many hearts have you and I broken during our time in London?" Greg mused, leading her through the velvet-draped hallways to Aunt Samantha's box.

"I doubt you could count that high," Lena replied, flashing a cheeky grin up at her brother. "But I have broken none."

"You lie, dear sister. You lie," Greg murmured, ushering her into the box.

"Helena! Gregoire! Oh, it is so _wonderful_ to see you!" Their Aunt Samantha, the Duchess of Bromleigh, came forward, positively dripping with diamonds and swathed in shimmering crimson silk. She pulled Lena into a quick hug, placing delicate kisses on her cheeks. She let Gregoire kiss her hand, and then she turned and pulled Lena to her seat. "I was sure that your mother would cry off coming to the Opera on your first night home. I'm so glad you decided to come!"

Lena grinned. She couldn't help herself. Aunt Samantha had always been the most gregarious of the Adinborough sisters. She was afraid of nothing, and she always dressed in the very height of fashion, to the point of being almost risqué.

But there was something in her smile, something brittle, that made Lena's hair stand on end. Something unpleasant was about to happen.

"Benjamin, say hello to your niece and nephew," Aunt Samantha commanded of Lena's uncle, who was in deep conversation with another man near the back of the box. Lena turned to greet her uncle, and stopped short when she saw who he was with. Every muscle in her body tensed, and her heart leapt into her throat.

She managed a nod to her uncle, who kissed her hand affectionately.

"Ah, Helena, wonderful to see you, my dear," Benjamin, the Duke of Bromleigh, said with a smile. Lena did not respond; her eyes were locked on the stranger.

"Uncle Ben," she said quietly. Instantly, he picked up on the strain in her voice, and his eyes flickered to the man he was standing with. Benjamin had the grace to blush.

"Stanford, I believe you have already met my niece." He kept his voice neutral, completely void of inflection.

Jacob, Viscount Stanford, nodded, and when Lena did not offer him her hand, he simply bowed. A lock of curly black hair fell across his forehead, and he reached up and thoughtlessly flicked it out of his eyes. She watched him make that gesture, so habitual, the same way he always had, and she noted to herself, with some triumph, that it no longer made her heart flutter in her chest.

"I have had the honor, your grace," Jacob said, keeping his piercing blue gaze trained directly on her. He leaned closer to her. "You look lovely, Lena," he said in a quiet voice.

Lena blinked, and raised both of her arrogant little eyebrows at him.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I cannot seem to recall your name," Lena admitted with a small smile, and a perfect tilt of her head. Jacob's lips thinned, and he nodded, acknowledging the hit.

Lena turned her back to him and moved to her seat. It had taken everything she had just to restrain herself from grabbing Jacob by his perfectly tied cravat and shaking him violently, demanding to know why he had abandoned her. Her hands were trembling as she sat down next to her brother.

Greg put his hand on hers. "_Je suis tres desolee, Lena. Je ne savais pas._"

_I'm so sorry, Lena. I didn't know._

"It's alright. I'm fine."

But that was a lie. She wasn't fine. She really wasn't. She kept her eyes trained on the stage as the curtains were drawn and the lights fell, and anyone who was watching her would simply assume that she was completely enraptured with the Opera. But that wasn't true.

She was saying a prayer to God that she would wake up and this would all be one big, terrible nightmare. This was worse even than her night terrors. She was praying that she would wake up and find herself in her own bed, back in France, and _he_ would be there, teasing her with a sprig of lavender and a brush of his hand on hers.

She wanted nothing more than to hear his voice again.

But Jacob was sitting behind her, and it was his voice she heard.

"May I escort you to get some refreshments, my lady?" he asked. Lena blinked, glanced around to find people moving about in their seats, getting up to have a stroll and mingle during the intermission. Then she looked up at him. He was holding his hand out to her, in plain view of every single human being in the entire theatre. If she snubbed him now, everyone would know there was still bad blood between them.

"I'm afraid my sister has already promised to accompany me for a stroll, Stanford," Greg said from beside them. Jacob glanced over at Greg, and for a moment, Lena thought the two of them might fall upon each other in blind, animal rage. The hatred that sparked between them was tangible, a solid physical presence.

"Greg," Lena said quietly, drawing their attention back to her. "It's alright." _If I can handle a strange man in my bedchamber, I can handle this bastard._

She lifted her hand and placed it in Jacob's, and with a practiced gesture, Jacob effortlessly pulled her to his side and escorted her out of the box.

He kept a slow pace, nodding and smiling to passersby, and they walked in silence for several minutes.

"Well, Helena," he said in his characteristic wry, quiet voice.

"You will address me properly, my lord," Lena replied in an icy voice. "I must commend you on such expert manipulation. If I did not dislike you so much, I would have been impressed."

Jacob chuckled. "I see you have not warmed to me in my absence."

Lena clenched her fist tightly around her reticule, so tightly that she could feel the stitches straining in her glove. It took every ounce of willpower in her tiny frame to keep her voice under control, to keep herself from flying at him and ripping out that perfectly curled hair of his and strangling him with his cravat. She turned to face him, and when she spoke, her voice was calm, and soft, and terrifying.

"I will never warm to the man who abandoned me at the altar."


	9. Samson

_AN: Finally. FINALLY. :)_

* * *

**THE CREATURE**

The house was quiet. Eerily, unnaturally quiet. It should have comforted him; he remembered days, no so long ago, that he had craved silence and darkness, so that he might drown himself in his own misery and despair.

But that was before Lena, before he had tasted light and laughter and peace.

He smiled, a curl of pale lips and a flash of even, white teeth, as he turned a page in the book he'd stolen from the extensive shelves that surrounded him. There was something innately comforting, soothing, about being surrounded by books. Or, perhaps, being surrounded by such warmth and wealth. His grin faded at this thought, and he leaned back in the plush leather chair. The maids had started a fire in the hearth next to him, to prepare for their master's return, and he had allowed himself to bask in the warmth and light of it, if only for an hour or two.

His expression turned grim. Lena was used to living in such wealth. She had been well cared for her entire life. Pain twisted like a knife in his heart. He could never hope to give her the life she must surely expect. He had no money, no land, not even a name.

He couldn't even give her his name.

He heard the girl before he saw her, quick footsteps and a murmuring voice, and every muscle in his body tensed. He was out of his chair in an instant, disappearing into the deep shadows of the corner of the library. A moment later, Margot, Helena's little sister, burst into the room, muttering to herself in French.

"Tell me to go to bed, hah! And why would I want to go to bed? It's not even ten of the clock, and I'm almost _twelve_ years old. Stupid woman, thinking she can tell me what to do." She threw herself into the chair he had just vacated, with a dramatic _hmph!_ Her indignant attitude made him smile with amusement. This was the impetuous child in the family. Gregoire, the adventurer, Helena, the peace-keeper, and Margot, the little fireball.

"Oh," she said, suddenly quiet. "You're here."

He remained still and silent, wondering what game she was playing in her mind. She had a vivid imagination, he had heard the stories she told Lena.

"Well, aren't you going to say something?"

He grinned. Perhaps even her imaginary friends occasionally ignored her.

"Don't be difficult," she scolded her invisible friend. "I know you're there. I see you almost everywhere we go."

A tiny alarm started going off inside his head. Maybe she wasn't talking to an imaginary friend.

No. That was impossible. She had never seen him. Not once. He was a shadow. Humans always ignored shadows.

"You're the one Lena talks to at night."

His heart stopped in his chest.

"You smell like the forest and... something else. Something nice, like a flower."

For a terrifying moment, he felt darkness open up around him, threatening to swallow him whole. But he fought it. She was just a girl. She could do no harm to him.

But she said she had _seen_ him.

"Normal little girls are frightened when they find strange men in their homes," he growled, adding a note of menace to his voice.

She remained sitting in the plush leather armchair, as if by instinct she knew not to turn around. But when she spoke, her voice was light and playful, and even slightly sarcastic.

"And how many little girls have you frightened in this way?" she wondered.

He couldn't help it. Against his own considerable will, his lips curled into a grin.

"Not many, I must admit," he replied. "But surely your parents taught you never to speak to strangers."

"You are not a stranger, sir," Margot said. She went quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft. "She stopped screaming at night when you came. You made it so that she could sleep peacefully for the first time in my memory. You are not a stranger."

Her words struck him into silence. A weight was pressing down against his heart, crushing the air from his lungs. How could a child know all this? Understand it?

And why hadn't she said something to Lena or her parents?

"Are you still there, sir?"

"Yes," he said in a gruff voice. "Why did you not mention my presence to anyone?"

Quick as a striking snake, her head whipped around and she pinned him with her glare. He froze, like a rabbit caught in crosshairs, his entire body turned to stone. But she did not shriek or burst into tears, her eyes did not go wide, and she did not stumble away from him in blind fear. She frowned. "I'm not stupid," she snapped. Then her eyebrows furrowed. "Heavens, you are tall. I don't think I've _ever_ seen a man taller than my Papa. Why are you looking at me like that?"

He blinked, and let the air rush out of his lungs, and his muscles turned to liquid. He fell to his knees.

No one had laid eyes on his face in eight years, since the day his father died.

The effect of it was almost too much for him to bear. And then she was on her feet, rushing towards him.

"What's wrong? Are you ill?" Her tone was laced with worry, but when she reached out for him, he flinched away from her instinctively. "I'm not going to hurt you," she said gently. Even on his knees, he towered over her. And yet he cringed from her as if she was a feral, rabid beast.

Belatedly, his brain caught up to the events occurring around it, and his hands flew up to cover his face.

Silence fell in the library, broken only by the crackling fire. Somewhere outside the house, down the street, a dog barked, and someone laughed merrily. Everything was a lifetime away from where he sat, curled inside his own world, encased by silence and shadows.

"I'm sorry," Margot said in a quiet voice, from somewhere outside of the darkness. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

And then he felt a small hand on his, grasping his wrist and pulling his hands from his face gently. He let his hands fall numbly, and she stepped back.

"You didn't frighten me," he said, staring at the plush Persian carpet beneath his knees, refusing to make eye contact with the child. "I was just surprised."

"Of course," Margot said quickly. "I didn't realize you were so easily… surprised."

Despite himself, a smile curled his lips. She had the same clever mind as her sister. If she grew up to be as beautiful and elegant as Lena, she would be the toast of the _beau monde_.

"Old habits, child, that is all."

She frowned up at him. "You make a habit of hiding your face from people?"

He lifted his gaze and pinned her with it, felt a bolt of terror slice through him as her eyes rested on his face. "Can you blame me?"

Margot blinked up at him, tilted her head to the side in confusion. "I don't understand."

"I am hideous," he growled. He absently lifted his hands to brush them over the scars. He knew each one by heart.

Margot smiled. "I do not think so, sir. I think you are almost as handsome as my papa." She paused a moment, narrowing her eyes a bit. "Your hair is very long, though, isn't it?"

A bark of laughter escaped him. His hair reached almost to the middle of his back, now. He supposed it was vain of him to let it grow so long, but his hair was the only part of him that he had ever been remotely proud of. It was soft and thick and black as a raven's wing.

"It is the source of my strength," he mused. Margot nodded with all the seriousness of youth.

"You are Samson," she said knowingly.

Something clicked into place in his mind, and echoed in his heart, like a perfectly cut key sliding into its lock. The pressure, the weight that pressed down into him from every angle, lifted instantly. Disappeared. Banished.

He looked down at Margot and smiled.

"Yes. I am."


	10. Apathy

_Author's Note: Please excuse the long absence, my friends. My grandfather died on February 1st, without warning, without giving me a chance to say goodbye, or to tell him how much he meant to me. But I know that he knew how much I loved him. He was a great man; he encouraged me in every dream I ever had, he was always there for me with wisdom, advice and funny war stories. I will miss him for the rest of my life._

_I'll see you in Heaven, Papa._

Jacob sighed, and his lips twisted in a bemused smirk. "Don't be so dramatic, Helena." He handed her a glass of lemonade and took a flute of champagne for himself. "The _beau monde_ thinks you were the one to end our betrothal."

"Yes," Lena agreed, her voice cool and distant. "And wasn't I the one who exiled you to America?"

Jacob chuckled. "So it would seem." He shrugged. "Besides, there was no great scandal. Your reputation is completely intact."

_And what about the rest of me, you heartless bastard?_

Lena looked at her lemonade with eyes narrowed in calculation. Just how much of a scene would it cause if she shoved him over the banister and down twenty feet onto the lobby's shining marble floors? It would certainly draw attention. Everyone seemed to be sending furtive glances their way, as if they expected to see _something _of interest. They probably weren't sure what.

According to the _beau monde_, the story that had circulated about Helena Dubois and the Earl of Stanford was one of love and loyalty, broken dreams, broken hearts, and a whole host of other ridiculously romantic notions that the _beau monde_ liked to believe in.

Two years earlier, Napoleon escaped from Elba and began revoking the titles of every established nobleman in France, and appointing his own friends as peers and protectors of the realm. Lena's father stood to lose everything: his family, his wealth, his lands, and his ancestral name. They had been in London at the time. Upon hearing the news, Philippe Jean-Marc, Vicomte de Dubois, and his son Gregoire, had returned to France. Jacob had been charged with protecting Helena, Margot, and their mother.

And that was when Jacob disappeared. Rumor had it that Helena had cried off, too afraid that Jacob would get caught up in the war with France, and that she would lose him just as she stood to lose her father and brother.

Of course, that was not at all what happened.

"I believe, 'married in all but name,' was the phrase you used," Lena said very quietly. Jacob's grip on her arm tightened. She looked up and met his dark, measuring gaze. "You made sure that I would never be able to cry off, Stanford."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said instantly, his full lips curling into a mocking smile. Lena felt anger swell within her, but it did not overwhelm her. She was far too tired, now. Too weak.

"I would tell you that I despised you, my lord, and that you were not worth the dirt on my slippers, but in truth, such words evoke a sense of passion that I cannot find within myself." She smiled. "I must admit, I am wholly indifferent."

His grin disappeared, as if he were truly taken aback by her honesty. For a few moments, Lena could see the war of emotions playing in his eyes, as he was caught between anger and surprise. His hand tightened on her arm, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of struggling against his grip.

"If you _ever_ tell a soul, Helena Dubois…" His voice was menacing and sharp, and below a whisper.

Lena, who had spent the past several months listening to her beloved companion issue half-hearted death threats that he didn't realize he didn't mean, was struck by just how true Stanford's threat rang in her mind. She was also struck by the fact that she was unfazed by such anger.

"Spare me your threats, Stanford," she said, smiling pleasantly and nodding to a couple as they passed. "I am not afraid of you."

His grip had grown painful on her arm, carefully concealed by her shawl, and Lena had to fight the urge to wince.

Then Greg appeared at her side like a vengeful angel, pulling her gently from Jacob's grasp.

"I'm afraid my mother is feeling unwell, Stanford. She has requested that Helena accompany her home. Good evening."

They turned and walked away from Stanford, and Helena felt his eyes on her as they crossed the lobby and passed through the doors. The moment they stepped out into the cool, quiet spring night, Greg turned to her and pulled her into a quick hug.

"Do you want me to call him out, Lena?" he demanded in French, in a low, urgent voice.

Lena smiled, wrapping her arms about herself to ward off the chill in the air. "Of course not. He not worth it."

"He hurt my baby sister. He insulted our entire family." Her brother's voice was rough, and only barely civil. "Just say the word and I'll kill him."

Lena looked up and met her brother's gaze. When she realized that he was dead serious, her smile faded. This was an anger that had been simmering in him for two years. He looked ready to strangle Stanford with his bare hands.

"Greg, I know you would," she said in a gentle voice. _I know someone else who would, too. But he's so far away._ "But I mean it when I say he's not worth it. Please, just let it go."

Greg nodded reluctantly, and led her to the carriage. Her mother was already waiting inside. As soon as Greg closed the door, and the carriage rocked into motion, a stream of French curses came pouring from her mother's lips.

"How _dare_ that miserable _salaud_ show is face in your presence!" she seethed. Lena's mouth dropped open.

"_Maman_!"

Her mother looked at her, and raised one haughty blonde eyebrow. "I am sure you have called him much worse, Helena. I _know_ your father has." She glanced out the window and sighed. "I don't know _what_ Benjamin was thinking, bringing him into that box with us. He's just so… scatterbrained at times."

"It was probably just politics, _maman_," Lena said wearily. "You know how Uncle Ben is when it comes to Parliament."

Her mother sighed. Lena turned her gaze to the window. All she wanted to do was go home and curl up in bed. Her nap earlier that day, though it had ended badly, had helped restore her energy. And then all of that energy had gone to controlling herself in Jacob's presence. Lena felt empty, hollow, drained of all emotion.

She rested her head back against the seat and fought to keep her eyes open.

The next thing she knew, her mother was gently coaxing her awake, and leading her into the house and up the stairs and into her bedroom. It had been years since her mother had taken care of her like this. In those moments, Lena wanted more than anything to be a little girl again, able to cry and run into her mother's arms. But she could not do that. She was twenty years old. A woman grown.

"_Bon nuit, ma cherie_," her mother whispered, and she kissed Lena on her forehead and quietly left the room.

It was only then that Lena allowed herself to cry. Half-asleep, she curled up in the pillows and sobbed quietly until she was too tired to keep her eyes open. She cried for the young, stupid, naïve girl she had been two years ago, and the tired, lonely girl she was now. She cried because she had not heard his voice in weeks, and she was beginning to see him in shadows and dreams. She cried because she feared for her sanity.

"If you were here, I could tell you what happened," she whispered, imagining that he was sitting next to the bed, just as he had been for the past several months. "You would be angry that I didn't tell you sooner. And you would vow to kill him. And I would talk you out of it, because I would just be so bloody happy that you were here that I wouldn't care that he was here, too. I hate you."

She drifted deeper into the haze of sleep, and when she felt the soft brush of his fingertips over her temple, her mind had no choice but to assume that it was a dream.


	11. Dreams

_**Author's Note:** I want to take a moment to truly, deeply thank all of my reviewers, each and every one of you make me smile, just for taking the time to leave a review, and I am eternally grateful for your patience and support. So this one's for you, my lovelies. Please feel free to share any comments, concerns or criticisms with me. I welcome constructive feedback, and I love hearing your opinions! :)  
_

_PS - __The song 'Samson' by Regina Spektor is absolutely lovely, and was the main inspiration that led me to name the creature Samson. Beautiful song, I highly recommend it._

* * *

**SAMSON**

She slept fitfully beneath his gaze, because she did not truly believe that he was there. He did what he could to keep her calm, but it was not enough. She had grown pale, and dark shadows had formed beneath her eyes. She slept peacefully for only a scarce few hours each night, and the rest of it was spent in a feverish half-sleep, in which she muttered to herself and let out faint, weak cries.

"Of course I'm here," he said with a humorless smile, reaching out to touch the pale curls that had formed a tangled halo around her head.

He followed her everywhere; he had not been out of earshot since the moment she had stepped foot out of her home in France to begin the journey to England. But she did not believe this, or did not want to, and so she did not feel truly safe, even when he was sitting right next to her.

He'd wondered about that. What was it that made her sleep peacefully when she knew he was near? Could it all be in her mind? Was her mind truly capable of torturing her so?

It was one of the reasons he'd decided not to let her know he was coming to England with her, but it was not the only reason, nor was it the most important. He hated the idea of such cruelty, his mind revolted against it, but it had to be done. He had to know if these terrors were a figment of her imagination – in which case they should return even when he was near, simply because she thought he wasn't – or if they were far more deeply ingrained in her consciousness.

But she did not scream when he was in the room with her. And though she did not sleep as soundly as when she was sure of his presence, her mind was not fooled by his ploy. The terrors didn't go away just because she _thought_ he was near; they simply went away when he was near.

"What frightens you so, Helena?" he wondered, reaching out and resting his hand on hers.

Curiosity burned in his blood like acid as he thought of what Lena had said before she'd fallen asleep. He had seen the man she spoke of, sitting behind her in her family's box at the Opera. Margot claimed – and he was sure she'd overheard one of her parents say this and was simply reciting it back to him – that Jacob Stanford was "a black-hearted fool." And even though he did not know the man, and no longer considered himself an unreasonably violent person, he had instantly become aware of a deep, aching desire to wrap his fingers around Stanford's throat and crush that arrogant smirk off his noble face.

Judging from his expression, Gregoire had felt a similar urge. Unfortunately, Lena's brother had decided not to act on it.

Lena stirred, and he went instantly still and silent, watching her with hawkish golden eyes.

"Greg?" Lena demanded, frowning, furrowing her eyebrows and curling her hand into a fist beneath his. He waited, watching her with an expression of growing concern. "Jacques?"

"It's me, Lena," he said quietly. "I'm here." He remembered the name Jacques, Lena had spoken of him before; he was a servant from her childhood who had often escorted the Dubois children on their adventures. A rustic, she had called him. A kind man, rough around the edges, but always ready with a smile and a solid determination to protect the two children as if they were his own.

Her frown disappeared, and her eyes fluttered open. But he did not panic; she was almost always hallucinating when she spoke in her sleep, and even when she had her eyes open, she would not be completely lucid for several minutes.

"Something was chasing me," she whispered, staring out into the middle of the room. "I slipped." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, as he waited for her next words. "But a man saved me, Jacques. He was very tall." Her fingers curled around her bare upper arms, and she shivered before him, even though there was a bright fire crackling in the hearth next to them. "Why am I so cold?"

He narrowed his eyes down at her, aware of a curious buzzing sound in his ears. A wave of bitter cold flashed through his body, as if empathizing with Lena's memories. Or perhaps drawing from memories of his own.

He could remember the numbing chill of the wind as it sang through dead, hollow trees. The sound of water running, a river rushing down from the mountains, swollen with melted snow. And the sound of laughter, far off in the distance. The laughter of children. He remembered the hollow ache of despair and sadness within him that throbbed like a wound with every beat of his heart.

He had cried out to the heavens, begging for death, begging for justice and revenge. Begging for something. _Anything_.

And then he had seen her, flitting through the trees, a flash of bright, buttercup yellow in a world of ash and snow. He had watched her run along the riverbank, silent and swift. She couldn't have been more than eight years old, but he had not known that at the time. He had only known that she was another human. A child. A beautiful, innocent child with long golden hair that streamed behind her as she ran. A child whose eyes were wide with silent terror.

Terror that had not been directed at him.

And when she had slipped and fallen into the river, he had known with every fiber of his being that he had to save her. He had seen her venture close to the banks, and he had watched in frozen horror as she lost her footing and slipped silently into the icy, turbulent water.

It had happened in an instant, one minute she was there, a bold spot of springtime color in the dead wintry landscape, and the next instant, she had disappeared beneath the murky brown waters. The river had swallowed her whole.

For that brief moment, nothing else in the world existed except for the sharp stab of panic that had gripped his heart and sent him sprinting towards her. For that moment, he had not been a monster. He had not been deformed or unwanted or scorned.

For that brief moment, he had just been a man. A man who knew in his heart that he could not sit by and do nothing while a child drowned.

His mind focused like an arrow, targeting the part of his memory that could pinpoint his general location when this had occurred. He didn't think about the consequences of what had happened. He didn't think of the bullet still lodged in his shoulder, covered by a bright pink scar. He could only see that little girl, pale and lifeless when he pulled her out of the water.

He had been in France. He had left the De Laceys and gone west, towards the setting sun, hoping to find eternal blackness at the end of the horizon, and he had ended up in southern France.

God help him. Twelve years after he had saved that child from the river, he had returned to her, and he had not even realized it.

"Oh, God," he whispered, falling to his knees by her bed. He reached out blindly and pulled her hands into his own. Lena did not notice. She was still shivering, silent and delusional. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

He could not have heard her even if she had spoken. Blood was pounding in his ears, rushing through his head at a dizzying pace. Memories that he had not bothered with for years sprang to the surface of his mind, flashes of colors and voices. Laughter and pain.

"It couldn't have been you," he said, leaning down to rest his head on her hands. "I can't bear the thought that I might have lost you like that. It wasn't you, Helena. Please, God, it wasn't you."

His eyes burned with tears he refused to shed. He squeezed them shut and pressed his lips to the back of her hand, praying that he was wrong. That this was not the source of her nightmares. That she had never been so close to death.

If he hadn't been there, that little girl would have died.

And his life would have been over before he'd even realized it. He would never have known her touch, or her kiss. The sound of her laughter. Her voice.

Lena's grip tightened, suddenly, fiercely, and he realized that she was lucid. When he lifted his head, he met her gaze, and despair was instantly replaced with a bolt of pure terror.

"I am hallucinating," she whispered. Her eyes were wide, and her gaze searched his face, as if memorizing every feature. The city lights that filtered through the window curtains were very faint, but he knew with every fiber of his being that she could see his face, if only barely. "I'm going to wake up and you won't be here."

His mind screamed with relief. This was a way out. He could be free. He could run from her and she would think that he had just been a dream. A figment of her imagination.

All he had to do was leave. Stand up and disappear. She would go back to sleep thinking that she was merely insane.

"I love you," she said fiercely, and he saw the glint of tears in her eyes. His grip on her hands tightened instinctively, but the rest of him remained motionless, too shocked for thought or movement. "I didn't tell you that before I left. I wish I had."

She was talking to him like she might never see him again. Like he was truly just a figment of her imagination. The pain that sliced through his chest sucked the oxygen from his lungs. She was holding on to him with a grip of steel, as if he would disappear when she let go.

She loved him. She loved a man whose face she had never seen, a man who had threatened to kill her on a nightly basis for the first several weeks of their friendship. A stranger that snuck into her bedroom at night.

She didn't realize what she was saying. He clenched his jaw and sucked in a breath, trying to quell the desperate hope, the longing, that reached up from the depths of his mind to overwhelm him. She didn't realize what was going on. She wasn't lucid. Once she saw him, saw his true appearance, the love she imagined she felt for him would disappear, dissolving in a torrent of screams and tears. Once she realized how ugly he was, how unnatural.

"You don't know what you're saying," he growled, looking away from the tears that slid over her pale cheekbones.

"I love you," she repeated stubbornly. "I'll tell you constantly until you believe me. I love you."

"Please, Helena, don't do this," he whispered, lowering his head. Suddenly, she released his hands, and her fingers slid into his hair, combing through it, caressing, and sending a current of pleasure shivering down his spine. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to moan, or to topple her back into the bed. Her fingers were soft, light, sliding through his hair and lifting his head back up. And suddenly her lips were on his, hungry and desperate. His entire body tightened, shot through with electricity, crackling with it. He knew that feeling. He remembered it.

Her fingers tightened, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Her tongue flicked across his lips, delicate and shy, and his heart skipped a beat. The entire world, everything around them, disappeared, and he was alone with her, in a world where he belonged. In _their_ world.

"Oh, God," he whispered into her lips. When his body came back to him and he could move his limbs once more, he reached up, lightning fast, and slid his arms around her waist, pulling her to the edge of the bed, up against his chest. He pressed her tight against him. He could feel the curves of her breasts, the wild beat of her heart, her quick, shallow breaths. Silken lips sliding over his. The soft, sweet moan that escaped her as she melded her body to his.

"I love you," she whispered, and began to trail delicate kisses over his jaw line and down his neck. Pleasure jolted through him; every inch of his body was alive with desire and electricity.

He was _alive_. He was breathing, and his heart was beating, and he held the most incredible, the most beautiful and kind and passionate woman in the world in his arms

He was alive, and he thanked God for it.

"Lena, please," he begged. He wasn't sure what he was begging for. Was he begging for more, or for a chance to escape from her grasp? If he left now, what would she do? Would it break her? Would she be alright?

He didn't know if he had the strength to walk away from her.

"I won't stop," she told him, and very gently grazed her teeth over the soft skin just beneath his ear. His entire body jerked wildly, overwhelmed by the sensation, and by the pure lust that raged through his blood. She laughed, light and sweet and playful. It was the first time he'd heard her laugh sincerely since she had left France.

"Helena," he gasped, as her hands slid from his hair, down over his shoulders, splaying across his broad chest. He was reminded of the first time she had touched him, the night he had fallen to his knees before her and begged her to be kind to him. But her touch was not hesitant or light now, it was hungry, desperate, and full of hope and promise.

"I love you," she said, and lifted her head to catch his lips in another deep, passionate kiss. "Tell me you believe me," she whispered. "Please, believe me."

He went still. Did he believe her? Or was his mind so lost in lust and passion that he couldn't distinguish true belief from desperate hope?

Her hands balled into fists on his chest, gripping the soft woolen fabric of his shirt, but when she kissed him again, he pulled away. His mind was buzzing with desire and confusion, and he had to get control of himself. He had to think. He couldn't do this. Not yet.

"You are so warm," she whispered. He slid his hands up to cover hers, and pulled them away from his shirt. Then he slid one arm around her waist and gently lowered her back against the bed. She clung to him, stubbornly refusing to let go. "Stay with me tonight. Please."

He froze, a grim, humorless smile flickering over his lips. How many times in one night could a man freeze solid from emotion? He hoped his nerves weren't dying off from sheer overstimulation.

She didn't realize what she was saying. She thought she was dreaming. There were no consequences in dreams.

But, God, the idea that she _wanted_ him, even if just in a dream…

"No, Lena," he murmured, brushing his fingers through long, curling blonde hair. Everything about her was soft, silken, and warm.

"You are my dream; you can at least do as I ask," she muttered, frowning slightly despite the soothing touch of his hands. He grinned. He couldn't help himself. Even now, when she was delirious from lack of sleep and emotional distress, she was a force to be reckoned with.

He sat next to her, but he did not lie down. He didn't trust himself enough; his willpower was already cracked and frail, hanging by a single thread.

"Go to sleep, Lena," he murmured, leaning down to place a soft kiss on her forehead. Her hand found his, and her grip was so tight it was almost painful. He smiled. "I will stay with you. I swear it."

He saw her relax, and he let his gaze slide over the soft white nightgown that hid her curves. She was beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful.

"I love you," she said softly, and her eyes fluttered closed. Her grip on his hand loosened. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He prayed that tonight, at least, she would sleep deeply.

He leaned down, brushed his lips against hers in a feather-light goodnight kiss.

"I know," he whispered, and sat back to wait for dawn.


	12. Freedom

_Author's Note: To answer one of my reviewers, yes, technically Samson is fourteen years old, but his body is about thirty (Victor used the bodies of young criminals) and his mind is much older (because in my version of the story, Victor used Professor Waldman's brain for Samson). This story is set about eight years after the death of Victor Frankenstein in the Arctic._

* * *

**HELENA**

Lena woke up with a smile on her face. For the first night since she had left France for England, she had slept soundly. She had slept in peace.

And she had dreamt of him.

As she got out of bed, she ran the dream through her mind again, amazed by how real it had seemed. He had been so warm. She felt terribly cold now, in comparison, even though the fire burned brightly in its hearth. Lena shrugged into her heavy wool robe and stood for a few moments, warming herself by the fire, eyes closed, lost in the recollection of last night. His lips. His hands. The glorious fire he had stoked within her.

She was smiling to herself when the door burst open, and light from the hallway poured in to her room. She turned to the door, squinting against the daylight, and saw Margot's small form silhouetted in shadow.

Her younger sister was breathing heavily, as if she'd just run from one end of the house to the other at top speed.

"What's wrong?" Lena demanded instantly.

"Abby's here," Margot said, then hesitated, "and Stanford just pulled up in his carriage."

"_What?!_" Lena's eyes shot open, her brow furrowing into a shocked frown. Adrenaline shot through her, and she ran over to the bell pull and yanked hard on it to summon Eleanor. _Mon Dieu_, Lena thought, imagining her cousin, Abigail, and Jacob in the same room with a shudder. S_he'll tear him apart._ Abigail had spent the entire summer with Lena after Stanford had broken her heart, and together they had invented all sorts of miserable torments to put Jacob through. Where Lena could not muster the energy to hate Stanford, Abigail hated him enough for the both of them.

Margot continued to stand at the doorway, impatiently hopping from one foot to another while Lena tore off her robe and ruffled through her wardrobe. She pulled out a simple white morning dress embellished with pale blue silk ribbon and threw the dress on her bed. "Gogo, have Miss Barnes go down there and tell Abigail that I need her immediately. Tell Gerald to extract Greg from the room, as well. Maman can handle Stanford on her own." Margot paused, tilting her head slightly, and Lena sent her an exasperated frown. "What?"

And Margot, ever the tactful eleven-year-old, frowned at Lena and said, "You're acting strangely."

Lena's eyebrows shot up. Margot had never criticized her before, not even when she was half-dead from lack of sleep. What, then, had changed?

"What do you mean?"

Margot shrugged. "You just seem very awake today."

Lena felt a chill creep down her spine. Surely Margot's observation was incorrect. One good dream was not enough to undo days of restless half-sleep. Such periods of insomnia and night terrors usually took weeks to recover from. She should look as haggard as she did yesterday.

"Thank you," she said, because she had no idea what else she _could_ say. Then she turned back to her mirror. "Now go, we need to act fast to avoid a scene."

She pulled the brush through her hair with ruthless efficiency, unable to wait patiently for Eleanor to arrive. Her heart was thumping madly in her chest. What horrible timing those two had! Abigail had sworn to slap Stanford right in the face if she ever met him in public.

Lena knew she wasn't lying.

Voices echoed through the hallway, angry and shrill, and Lena turned to the doorway just in time to see her cousin storm into the room.

"_Il est un salaud misérable, Lena_!" Abigail snapped, rushing forward to pull Lena into a fierce, tight hug. Lena laughed breathlessly, throwing her arms around Abigail. She was still muttering curses about Stanford, and Lena had to laugh.

"Relax, Abby," Lena said, leaning back to inspect her cousin, just as Abby turned a critical eye on her. Before Abby could even open her mouth, Lena shook her head. "I'm fine. I swear it."

"Non, tu es malade, ma cher," Abby replied in a soft voice. Lena sat back down at her vanity and patted the seat. Abby joined her, hooking her arm through Lena's.

"I'm not sick, Abby," she said firmly. She looked at their reflections in her mirror, and noticed the stark contrast between the two of them; where Lena's hair fell in soft blonde curls, Abby's fell in thick black sheets that reflected blue in the light. Lena's skin was pale, and she had light bruises beneath her eyes. Abby's skin glowed a pale copper, kissed by sunlight and her mother's Turkish blood.

"Pourquoi tu parles en Anglais?" Abby wondered, frowning at Lena in the mirror. _Why are you speaking in English?_

_I'm speaking English because French reminds me of him,_ Lena thought, feeling the sharp stab of pain in her chest at the thought of her companion. "Because we're in England, and here they speak English."

Abby frowned at her reflection, absently flicking a strand of silken black hair out of her eyes. "I do not like English," she said sullenly, her words only faintly accented. "But I suppose I must."

"Yes," Lena replied with a grin, "I can see how difficult it is for you."

Abby rolled her eyes and fixed Lena's reflection with a dark look. "Stop trying to distract me. Why aren't you down there giving Stanford a piece of your mind? And what's wrong with you? You look like you haven't slept in days."

"Actually, she looks a lot better today," Margot said from the doorway. Abby and Lena turned on their seat, and Abby grinned and flung out her arms.

"Come give me a hug, little cabbage," Abby commanded, and Margot skipped forward and threw her arms around Abby in a tight hug.

"I think it sounds better in French," Margot said with a giggle.

"_Oui, ma petite chou_."

Margot straightened, and looked over at Lena. "Did you tell Abby about your night terrors going away?"

Abby grinned, and eyed Lena mischievously. "Indeed, she has, and I am very curious to know _why_. Aren't you, little cabbage?"

Margot nodded, grinning.

"Oh, for God's sake," Lena muttered under her breath. "Where's Stanford, Gogo?"

Margot waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, he's in the Red Parlor with Maman."

"And where is Eleanor?" Lena demanded.

Margot's looked thoughtful. "Gerald asked her to help him distract Greg. When I came back upstairs, they were unlocking Papa's brandy cabinet."

Abby and Lena exchanged a meaningful glance, and Abby burst out laughing. Lena went very still. Gerald did not need any help unlocking a cabinet. Eleanor didn't even have a key. So why, then, did Gerald insist on bringing Eleanor with him to unlock the brandy cabinet to get Greg something to calm him down?

"Lena, what is it about you that inspires such protectiveness? Even the butler looks out for you," Abby teased in a gentle voice.

"I don't know," Lena said in a toneless voice. She grabbed the hairbrush and started brushing out her hair. If Gerald refused to let Eleanor come up and get Lena dressed, then by God, Lena would dress herself.

Abby and Margot started chatting rapidly in French, while Lena busied herself with her pale blonde rat's nest. She frowned at herself in the mirror. Something felt odd inside her, like she'd eaten spoiled food; her stomach clenched and her hands were trembling a tiny bit.

She pulled the brush through her hair with firm, quick strokes, the same way her mother had taught her when she was a child, ignoring the sharp pain when she caught on a knot. All she could do was focus on the task with grim determination, noting the unsettled feeling in her stomach and the trembling of her hands, and hoping that both would pass quickly.

After a few minutes, she realized that Abby and Margot had gone silent, and they were both staring at her as if she'd grown another head.

Lena slammed the brush down on her vanity, and the sharp cracking sound made her audience jump.

"_What?_" Lena snapped. Abby narrowed her eyes.

"Margot, go spy on Stanford for us," Abby said quietly. Margot backed up a few steps, staring at Lena with wide eyes, and then she whirled around and ran out of the room in silence. Abby sighed. "You just scared that poor child near to death, Lena."

"I most certainly did not," Lena replied instantly, her voice sharp.

"She's never seen you like this before," Abby said evenly. "Hell, I've never seen you like this, either."

Lena stood up and walked over to the window, grasping the windowsill with white knuckles. Her thoughts were numb, and her eyesight was fuzzy. Her stomach was still tied up in a tight knot. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Abby. I just… I feel like… I want to break something."

Abby chuckled. Lena whirled around and fixed her with a glare.

"You're angry."

"What?" Lena snapped.

Abby stood up and took Lena's hands in hers. "There's nothing wrong with you, Helena. You're just angry."

Lena paused to digest Abby's words. Was it true? The only other time she'd felt this way in her entire memory was the night her companion accused her of being a seductress.

But he wasn't here. No one had accused her of being manipulative. Her beloved cousin had arrived unexpectedly, her hated ex-fiance had shown up, and everyone in the household had conspired to keep Lena safe and sound, quietly tucked away in her room where nothing could upset her.

"_Mon Dieu_," Lena breathed, sinking down onto her bed. The twisting in her stomach faded, and muscles she hadn't realized were tight began to relax.

"What's wrong, Lena?" Abby demanded, coming to sit next to her, still holding Lena's hands firmly in her own grip.

Lena was quiet for a long moment. Too many thoughts were flickering through her mind, too many questions and memories floating up to the surface of her thoughts.

When she'd been a child, her parents had always kept her safe, had stayed with her during her night terrors, had made sure she never wanted for anything. When she'd made her debut, her family's reputation had opened up the very best parties and social events to her, and her father had lavished her with jewelry and gifts and exquisite ballgowns. When Stanford had abandoned her, she'd had her mother and Abby to take care of her, to help her through the pain and sadness, and to salvage her reputation.

And when the night terrors had grown so constant and vicious that she had begun to wish for death, _he_ had appeared like some dark, sullen angel. A miracle. To soothe her. To give her back her peace.

God.

She'd never had to do _anything_ for herself in her _entire life._

"Abby," Lena said tonelessly, "I am a spoiled brat."

Abigail threw her head back and burst out laughing. Lena turned her head to stare at her as if she'd gone mad.

"There's nothing funny about this!" Lena cried, covering her face with her hands and heaving a miserable sigh.

"You are not a spoiled brat, Lena," Abby managed through her laughter. "I would not be seen in public with a spoiled brat. Do you remember Susanna Bennington?"

Lena nodded numbly. She remembered Baroness Bennington throwing temper tantrums in public when she didn't get her way, hitting her servants when they didn't follow her commands quickly or efficiently enough. Flirting outrageously with her husband's friends.

She remembered, before Susanna married Baron Bennington, the girl's desperate attempts to steal Stanford away from her. A Viscount was of much higher rank than a Baron.

Of course, Stanford stole _himself_ away after he got what he wanted from the Dubois family, but that didn't change the fact that Lena had long thought of Susanna as her enemy. Even if she did not have it in her to hate the evil, scheming creature.

"_That_, my dear, is a spoiled brat. And a crazy one, no less. You are _not_ like Susanna Bennington."

It was true. Lena was not like that. She cared about the feelings and wellbeing of others. She treated her servants well. She did not act inappropriately in public. But that did not mean everything was okay.

She felt her vision tunnel, and her breathing grow shallow. There was a buzzing noise in her ears, a muted sound, like a bee flying around in her head.

She was not okay.

It was not normal to go through life with no emotion. It was not… good.

She had been living like some kind of ghost for her entire adult life. Even when she had thought herself in love with Jacob Stanford, she had felt no great stirring of emotion within herself. She had felt a warm fondness for him. She had always thought herself too strong-willed to give in to faintness and swooning, like most other women her age seemed to do.

She had been lost in a haze of numbness since she was a child. She was caught in a miserable state of half-living in which she pretended to be a normal human, yet she had no strong emotions, no anger or jealousy or hatred, even toward those who greatly deserved it.

Her eyes burned, and the oxygen disappeared from her lungs. She was drowning. The muscles in her stomach clenched, as if to keep her from falling apart. Emptiness rose up to consume her like a giant wave, a rushing torrent of despair and frigid cold water.

She was helpless against it, drowning beneath overwhelming sadness and something else. Something bigger. Something she could not fight.

Her body begged her to give in, to give up and relax and let herself go.

_Give up_, a voice whispered in her mind. She was no longer aware of her body, or her surroundings. Just that rasping voice, and the heavy, dead silence around her. _Give up, just like you did last time._

She didn't recognize that voice. She didn't want to.

But then she heard another voice. One she recognized very well.

It was her own.

_No._

She fought. She lashed out against the darkness, the despair, the great silent weight that pressed down upon her. She would not give up. Not anymore.

Not ever again.

_No!_

Never again.

_NO!_

The weight disappeared. The crushing sadness evaporated. She took one great, heaving breath, sucking oxygen into her lungs, and opened her eyes.

The world was fuzzy and muted, like she was wrapped in a blanket of clouds. Abigail was hovering over her, crying, talking so rapidly in French that Lena couldn't understand her. Her cousin was worried, and looked deathly pale. Lena was sure she must look worse. But inside, she was fine. Inside, she was calm, and quiet, and she could feel her blood humming with something like energy, but a peaceful, gentle energy.

The scent of cedar and pine and lavender drifted around her.

She smiled.

_I am alive._


	13. Emotion

_Author's Note: SUPER long chapter for my lovelies, because you've all been so wonderfully patient. I'd like to extend a truly heartfelt "Thank you!" to my Beta, ColeAndPhoebeForever, who helped me a great deal with this chapter. You are awesome, Kim._

_As always, reviews are welcome and encouraged._

* * *

**SAMSON**

Samson stared down at his hands, illuminated by dusty golden light. They were large hands, unnaturally so. Calloused by hard labor, and cut through with silver-white scars. Perfectly proportioned to the rest of his body, yes, but he towered over other men, and his hands were nearly twice the size of Helena's. And they were terribly strong. Strong enough to destroy life with only minimal effort.

Strong enough to kill a child.

He shuddered, and his hands curled into fists. That was a sin that would never stop haunting him. He would never forgive himself for the boy's death. Just as he would never forgive himself for the murder of Victor's wife. That night, when he had first seen her up close, he had thought she was the most beautiful creature in the world. The first night he had seen Helena, he had thought the same thing.

When Elizabeth had noticed his presence, she had screamed so loudly the sound had pierced his head with pain. She had turned away from him and tried to flee. She had looked upon him with the utmost revulsion.

When Helena had first realized that he was in the room with her, she had spoken to him as if he was human, not monster.

Did that mean that Elizabeth had deserved her fate?

No. Of course not. She had no more deserved to die than William Frankenstein or Henry Clerval. He had been mad with grief and pain, spurned by humans, driven to insanity by the false hope Victor had inspired within him when he agreed to create Samson's mate. And then driven into a rage the likes of which no human was capable of suffering, when his only hope for finding kindness and love in the world was destroyed by his own father.

William. Henry. Elizabeth. They were all dead at his hands, and he would carry their deaths with him for the rest of his life.

And another had almost joined them this morning.

He laughed bitterly. Samson had murdered three innocent people, and he balked at the death of a bastard like Jacob Stanford.

He hadn't even enjoyed the look of blatant terror that had twisted Stanford's features when he saw Samson standing in the shadows of the front parlor. He had not relished the gasp of voiceless fright as he had prowled across the room and grabbed the Englishman by his throat and lifted him into the air.

But he had enjoyed relaying his threat. Oh, he had _so_ enjoyed that part. He had put his face close to Stanford's, so close he could smell the sickly sweet stench of fear rolling off him. His bright, golden eyes had glittered with primitive, animal ferocity. He had smiled, and his voice had come out as a predatory snarl.

"_I do not know what you did to her, and God help you should I ever find out. But you will apologize to her for everything you have done to cause her sadness. You will beg for her forgiveness or I shall rip your heart out of your chest while it still beats. And after you have groveled at her feet, you will disappear; you will leave this country, and hope to God that I never decide to come after you. Helena is mine."_

He had dropped the Viscount back onto unsteady legs and turned to leave the room. And then he had paused at the doorway, and turned back to Stanford with another cruel little smile.

"And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, it's your tongue I'll be ripping out instead of your heart."

The look on Stanford's face had brought a true grin to Samson's lips as he'd left the front parlor and disappeared back up to the attic, where he now sat contemplating the nature of death and sin. It was not until he had returned here that he realized just how close he had been to killing the man. It was frightening, how little control he had over the hellish, unthinking rage that lived within him. The possibility of losing his temper was a constant threat now, because he did not have Lena's presence to sooth his temper.

It should not be so easy to kill. He should not be so strong. Maybe if he hadn't been born with such size and strength he wouldn't have been able to kill anyone. He wouldn't have to deal with the painful knowledge that, no matter how much Helena thought she might love him, she would never look at him the same if she knew what he had done. He did not deserve her.

He did not deserve life.

Tiny footsteps clicked against the attic stairs. Samson lifted his head and fixed his gaze on the stairwell. His body tensed, ready to flee at the slightest hint of a threat, and as he forced himself to relax, he mused at the strength of his flight instinct.

Margot appeared in the doorway, and the look on her face wiped all thoughts of Samson's own misery out of his head. He stood swiftly, and went to kneel before her. He took her hands in his; they were shaking and cold.

"What's wrong, child?" he demanded. She looked on the verge of tears. "Are you alright?"

She looked up at him with an unreadable expression on her face, and then she hung her head.

"Lena yelled at me," she whispered.

Samson frowned. "She what?"

"She _yelled_ at me. Just like my stupid governess does when I do something wrong. But I didn't _do_ anything, Samson! I didn't even _say_ anything!" Margot sniffled, and Samson sat back to stare at her. "And then Abby sent me away, and I didn't know where to go, so I came to look for you."

"Me?" He was momentarily baffled. "Why?"

She sent him the look that Lena always gave him when he exasperated her. He almost smiled at the similarity, but thought better of it at the last minute.

"Because you're my friend."

Oh.

Samson opened his mouth to speak, and found that he had no words. He could only nod.

"Anyway, she yelled at me." Margot dropped down onto a dusty trunk and sat silently, staring out one of the dirty windows with a forlorn expression on her pale face.

Samson stared at her for a long moment. He had suffered untold horrors in his lifetime, immeasurable suffering and pain, hatred, madness, and despair beyond measure. He had traveled to the farthest reaches of the Earth. He had survived wounds that would have been fatal to any normal man.

And he had absolutely no idea how to handle a sulking eleven-year-old girl.

"I… I'm sorry that she yelled at you," he said, sitting down across from her.

"She's never done that before."

She had never raised her voice to him, either. He wasn't sure how he might react if she did. He couldn't even visualize it. They sat there in a silence that only Samson found awkward; Margot was far too miserable to notice.

Finally, he cleared his throat and looked over at the girl.

"What happened?"

It was like he had broken a dam, and a river of words instantly came pouring out of her.

"I ran up and told her Stanford had just gotten here, and so had Abby, and she looked at me like she was mad and told me to go get Abby and bring her to her room, and to tell Gerald to get the brandy, and to get Eleanor to help her dress, and then you told me to lock Stanford in the front parlor and tell Lena that he was in the Red Parlor – why did you do that, by the way? – and then I told Lena that Eleanor wasn't coming to help her dress because Gerald wanted her to help with the brandy for Greg and Papa and Lena's face went all white and she sat down and started brushing her hair and then she threw the brush down and said 'What!' really loud and even Abby looked scared, and I've never seen Abby scared, cause she's not afraid of _anything_." She stopped, more out of the need for oxygen than due to a lack of words, and took a deep, heaving breath.

Samson stared at her.

"Ah. Well." And he looked down at his hands again, and then back up at Margot. "I do not think that Lena's anger was directed at you." Margot shot him her "Don't be stupid" look again, and Samson smiled. "Truly, I do not. Lena was angry because she felt helpless." Though she had never displayed her temper in front of her family before. He was the only one who had seen it. This worried him, though he did not let it show.

"Why would she feel helpless? She was ordering me around like she was the Queen."

Samson laughed softly. "Yes, you were the only one who would listen to her, and the only one who was truly trying to help her."

She frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose."

"You were. Your father was in his office loading his dueling pistol, your mother was in the Red Parlor contemplating the efficiency of a teapot as a weapon, your brother was pacing the library like a caged lion, and the servants were running around like chickens with their heads… well, let's just say they were frantic. And the new girl – Abby, was it? – she was upstairs arguing with Lena to distract her from the situation. So you see, while everyone else was trying to handle the problem themselves, which they had no right to do, you were the only one actually _helping_ your sister." Margot's eyes were as wide as tea saucers by the time he was finished speaking.

"How did you know all that?"

Samson grinned. "I know everything that goes on in this house."

Margot smiled. Her eyes lit up and her back straightened with pride. Samson heaved a mental sigh. One potential crisis handled; another to attend to in a few minutes. Today was turning out to be quite exhausting, even for him.

Then she spoke again.

"Why _did_ you tell me to lock Stanford in the front parlor, Samson?"

He groaned. What was it with the Dubois women? They would not give him a moment's respite.

"Because I wanted to speak with him alone, Margot."

She gasped with delight. "Did you challenge him to a duel in Hyde Park?"

"Of course not," Samson said with a disapproving frown. He had seen the duels of which she spoke, and they were tame and civil compared to what he wanted to do to Stanford. But, of course, he would never tell that to a child. "I asked him very nicely not to bother your sister anymore." Margot shot him a dubious glance, but before she could speak, he lifted a hand for silence and cocked his head to the side. He heard her voice, very distantly, calling to him like a siren's song. He smiled. "Lena has gone downstairs." He stood, and took Margot's hand to lead her back to the stairwell. "She'll be meeting with Stanford soon. Be my eyes, and yell if you need me, alright?"

Margot looked up at him, and flashed him a brilliant, but shy smile. "Thank you, Samson. You're a good friend." And she turned and disappeared in a whirl of brown curls and blue ribbons. And Samson was left standing in the attic, alone.

Except that he wasn't alone anymore. The realization came suddenly, surprising him and enveloping him in a strange, light-headed sensation. For the first time in his life, he was not alone. He had Helena's love and Margot's friendship. And no matter how fleeting this sensation may be, it filled him with a sense of warmth and peace. It was the first time he had ever felt any measure of peace outside of Helena's presence.

Perhaps, then, if his sanity and temper did not truly depend upon her, he might one day be able to approach her as nothing more than a man, and not a desperately lonely, utterly damned monster clinging to one last hope for salvation.

Perhaps there was hope for him, yet.

He smiled.

* * *

**HELENA**

She felt like she could fly. Her entire body was light and nimble. She reached out, and Abigail helped her to her feet in frightened silence, but Lena could not stop smiling. She turned to her cousin and pulled her into a hug. Emotions were running wildly through her body, liquid colors in her mind, pure delight and amusement and mischief.

"I'm fine, Abby. Really." She laughed at the look on Abby's face. "Do you know the feeling you get when the sun comes out after weeks of rain and dreariness? I feel like that. I feel _alive_."

"Lena, have you lost your mind?" Abby demanded. "You just _fainted_. You never faint. What is going on?"

Lena went to her wardrobe and grabbed her shoes. "Hand me my dress, will you?"

Abigail did as she was asked, all the while muttering under her breath about Lena having nothing but air in her head.

Lena hummed to herself, incapable of standing still as Abby helped her into her dress and helped her pile her hair up onto her head. She had fought her demons, and it would appear that she had won. She could _feel_. She could laugh and truly know what it felt like to laugh. She could smile and that smile reached all the way down to her toes. She had never felt so much energy, she was practically buzzing with it. It was almost like…

Like the way she felt when _he_ was around.

She stopped in her tracks, halfway to the door.

He had made her feel alive. Was that why she craved his presence so badly? Was that why she craved _him_ so badly? His touch, his kiss, the sound of his voice. Everything about him made her feel… brilliant and full of energy.

But he was not around. And a dream could not possibly be enough to give her this energy. She had found it herself.

Did that mean that she didn't need him anymore?

"Abby?"

"Yes, crazy lady?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

Abby laughed, throwing herself back onto Lena's bed and heaving a dramatic sigh. "Of course not. If I had, I would be married by now, and not the sole cause of despair in my mother's life."

Lena grinned from the doorway. "You're incorrigible."

"And you are insane. Now let me take a nap while you go chat with the idiot viscount."

Lena laughed and shut the door to her room, leaving Abby to her rest. But she sobered as she walked down the hallway towards the stairs. Was it possible that she wasn't in love with him? How would she feel around him, now that she had her emotions back, and her life?

It was something she would have to contemplate later. Right now, she had a viscount to destroy.

When Lena walked into the library, she found her father and brother sitting by the fireplace, each with a glass of brandy in his hand. Gerald stood at attention behind them, next to the decanter. All three froze like rabbits caught in crosshairs when they saw her.

"You should both be ashamed of yourselves, drinking this early in the day," Lena stated.

Greg opened his mouth to speak, and then hesitated.

"Helena, you look… lovely," her father said in a strained voice. Lena smiled. She looked breathtaking, and she knew it. She was wearing her finest day dress, pale blue muslin with white silk roses embroidered along the hem and sleeves. Her golden hair was pulled back beneath a jaunty little hat, and delicate ringlets fell around her face and neck.

No doubt, they believed she was trying to impress Stanford.

Lena suppressed a shudder at the thought. Anger swelled up within her, threatening to explode. She tamped it down; she could control these new emotions of hers. She could handle them.

Her family, on the other hand, might not be able to. They had only ever known her as their quiet, biddable daughter. Their paragon. The one who never caused trouble.

That was not who Helena Dubois really was. That was what the night terrors and made her, and she refused to bow beneath that terror anymore.

"Thank you, papa." She forced a pleasant smile on her face. "Why was I not told that Stanford is here?"

This time, it was her father whose mouth dropped open like a fish out of water, and Gregoire jumped in to save him.

"We didn't want you to get upset, Lena, that's all."

Lena put her hands on her hips like an angry fishwife. Like Margot did when she was about to yell at someone. "I don't see how Stanford's visit would upset me."

The two men exchanged baffled glances at each other. Lena's father took a long sip from his glass.

"He seemed to upset you last night," Greg noted. Lena dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

"Oh, no, he wasn't the problem at all," she replied offhandedly. What had upset her last night had been the constant hallucinations, the shadows she kept seeing out of the corner of her eye, and the desperate desire to hear her companion's voice.

She felt an instant stab of longing as she thought of the night before, of the muted sadness she had felt, and it very nearly brought tears to her eyes. At the same time, she felt the absurd urge to laugh. If she had truly had her emotions last night, she would not only have set upon Stanford like an infuriated harpy, but she would quite possibly have gone chasing after the shadows that reminded her of her companion.

She wanted to hear his voice, to feel his presence, so badly she could barely breathe. Even now, standing in the library, she felt it like a hole in her heart, an ache for him that could not be sated by anyone else in the world.

And with that thought she dismissed all possibility that she was not in love with him. Even now, with emotions running through her like liquid fire, with energy bubbling in her veins, it just made the desire to be close to him a hundred times stronger.

She smiled.

"Bollocks, Lena," Greg said suddenly. Their father coughed, and raised his handkerchief to his mouth. Lena eyed him dubiously. She rather suspected that he was laughing.

"You shouldn't curse in front of a lady," Lena said. She turned to leave, and Greg sat up straight in his chair, sloshing a few drops of brandy onto the thick Persian carpet beneath their feet.

"Now, just wait _une minute_, Helena," her brother said in an indignant voice. He must have downed his first glass very quickly; he only mixed his languages when he was sloshed. "_Où vas-tu_?"

_Where are you going?_

"Where I'm going is none of your concern," she said over her shoulder as she passed through the door and into the hallway. From behind her, she heard Gregoire complaining in a deliberately loud voice.

"She's like an older version of Margot."

And then her father, in voice full of quiet laughter. "No, son. It's the other way around."

She smiled to herself, and directed her steps towards the stairs. Towards Stanford.

The Red Parlor was a rich, lavish, almost painfully formal sitting room that faced the rose gardens in the rear of the house. The Dubois family rarely made use of it, as it had cost a king's ransom to create, and they did not often have visitors who required that level of formality, or that level of intimidation.

Today, however, intimidation was quite called for.

Helena swept into the room, and took a moment to bask in the richness of red Chinese silk and shining, gilded furniture. She had loved this room as a girl, before she had lost herself. Now, she felt that familiar, long-forgotten swell of joy as she entered into an exotic, magical place. Before her, her mother sat on the embroidered silk chaise, pouring herself a cup of tea, and looking for all the world as if she was entertaining an old friend.

Opposite her, Stanford sat on one of the padded benches the Chinese seemed to prefer. His back was razor-straight, and he looked slightly baffled. His eyes darted around the room, shifting constantly. As if he expected something – or someone, perhaps – to come leaping out at him from the shadows.

Lena smiled. She had the advantage of being perfectly comfortable, in her own home, in one of her favorite rooms, where her mother sat opposite the enemy, waiting to engage.

She had every advantage.

So she smiled. It was a bright smile, one that she felt through her entire body. It felt like all of her was smiling. She had smiled before, but it had never reached past her eyes.

Two faces turned towards her, and for one brief instant, both wore identical looks of utter shock.

Of course. Her mother had not seen her smile since she was a child. And Stanford had _never_ been privilege to such an expression.

"_Bonjour, Maman_," Lena greeted her mother first, a deliberate insult to Stanford's social rank. Her mother inclined her head for Lena to kiss her cheek, and only then did Lena straighten and dip a very slight curtsey to Stanford. "My lord."

He stood. Proper manners would have brought him to his feet the instant she entered the room, but she could forgive him the slight, considering her sudden change in demeanor.

"I wish to speak with you, Lena," he said in a quiet voice. Lena narrowed her eyes at him, but she could detect no hint of sarcasm or disdain. Was he actually being sincere?

Lena's mother stood up and took a step forward, ready to insert herself between her daughter and her enemy. Lena held up one hand to her mother.

"_Non, Maman. Je suis apte la faire."_

_I can handle this_.

Of course she could handle this. If she could overcome that terror, that frozen, debilitating fear, then she could do anything.

She turned to Stanford. He watched her through eyes so brown they seemed black, and she saw a flicker of…_ something_… in them.

"It is such a beautiful morning. Shall we take a walk in the gardens?"

He nodded, and preceded her to the terrace doors, opening them for her and escorting her out into the chill morning air.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, my lord?" Lena asked in an absent voice, extracting her hand from his grip to inspect a red rose that grew defiantly in her path.

Stanford was silent for a moment.

"I came to apologize. For everything." His tone was soft, and Lena was struck by the note of fear in it. She turned and looked up at him, and saw a haunted – or was it a _hunted_? – look in his eyes. "I am sorry, Helena."

Lena shook her head, baffled. Where had this change of heart come from? Last night, she had seen murder in his eyes. Last night, he would have killed her in a heartbeat if she had tried to tell the world the truth.

And now he was apologizing?

It made no sense. Stanford did not apologize. He did not make mistakes. His pride was exceeded only by his arrogance.

She stared at him, amazed. Apparently, she wasn't the only one capable of massive changes in disposition.

She didn't feel the rage, not at first. But it was there, hiding beneath the surface of her mind, waiting like a vicious, hungry predator, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Her eyesight went red.

"Stanford," she said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "two years ago, you abandoned me – you abandoned _my entire family_ in our greatest time of need." Without realizing it, she had begun to advance on him, and he involuntarily took a step back. He winced at her accusation, and a grim smile lit upon her face. "You have stolen from me. You have insulted me. You have threatened my life. You took my virginity and ran like the pathetic, miserable coward that you are. Answer me honestly: do you really think that I would forgive you for anything?"

He had gone pale, as if someone had leached the blood from his body and left a ghostly shell behind. He came towards her, and grasped her hands in his. His palms were cold. His entire body was shaking.

He was terrified.

"I wish you had not said that," he said quietly, his words pouring out in a hasty jumble. "Whoever he is, I hope he can protect you from –" he choked off whatever he was about to say, and closed his eyes. "Goodbye, Helena."

And he turned and disappeared around the side of the house, towards the stables. Lena watched him go with a furtive frown curling her lips. It was not like him to give up so easily. She had expected him to put up a bigger fight. Something was not right about him. She had, at first, been very attracted to his stubborn, arrogant, _lordly_ demeanor. Now, he seemed far too human. Far too… fragile.

Lena shook her head. Not right. She didn't like thinking of her mortal enemy as anything other than a monster.

A voice sounded from behind her, interrupting her musing and causing a stab of surprise to race through her. "What is virginity, Lena?"

_Oh, dear God._ Lena turned around and met Margot's eyes. They were wide, terribly innocent, curious, and perhaps a little bit afraid.

Had she ever been so innocent? She had most certainly been sheltered, and treated with all the delicacy and care of a precious piece of china. But innocent?

No.

"That is something you will need to talk to M_aman_ about, Gogo." She hesitated, and then sighed. "Don't tell her you heard it from me, _d'accord_?"

Margot pouted a bit, but she accepted Lena's avoidance with a shrug. "Why did you yell at me?"

Lena blinked. "I didn't yell at you."

"You did, when you were in your room and Gerald and Eleanor were getting the brandy for Greg."

"The brandy? _Oh!_ I wasn't yelling at you, Gogo. I was just angry at… well, everyone, really. Everyone but you. You were a big help." She reached out and ruffled her sister's dark curls affectionately, though her thoughts were distant and vague. She was still having trouble understanding Stanford's sudden change of heart.

Margot's sudden giggle brought Lena's attention back to the present. "What's so funny?"

Her sister sent her a grin, the particular kind of grin she adopted when she had a secret and didn't wish to share it. "Nothing."

"Right." She narrowed her eyes playfully. She had never indulged in sisterly bickering with Margot; she had already withdrawn into that quiet, biddable shell by the time her sister had been born. But at her heart, and in the presence of her companion, she had always been a Dubois: fierce, clever, and stubborn. "And why is this 'nothing' so very funny? Surely it would be more amusing if I could share the joke."

Margot's eyes widened a fraction. She had not expected Lena to question her avoidance. Then her eyes narrowed again.

"Why won't you tell me what virginity is?" she countered in a haughty tone. "You said Stanford stole it. Why not tell Papa and he'll get it back for you?"

Lena felt the blood drain from her face, and vertigo threw her vision into disarray. She dropped to her knees, vaguely aware of the pain that would manifest as ugly bruises on her legs tomorrow.

These new emotions, it would appear, were both a blessing and a curse.

"Never," she breathed, reaching out for Margot and pulling her into a fierce, tight hug. Her sister didn't struggle; she stayed quiet while Lena fought her demons. Visions of scorn, disgust, revulsion in the faces of the _beau monde_, the humiliation of what she had done, what she had lost, of her ruin. She couldn't handle it, if anyone learned. Not yet. "You must not tell anyone, Margot._ Je t'en supplie_."

_I beg you._

"It's okay, Lena," Margot's voice was quiet and gentle. "I won't tell a soul, I swear it."

It took her a few moments before the trembling subsided. When she regained control of her limbs, she released Margot and slowly got to her feet. She glanced down at her little sister. Not so little, anymore. She looked like a younger, dark-haired version of Lena. She was looking up at Lena with concern.

"I'm fine," Lena said quietly. "I promise."

Margot nodded, but she said nothing for a long time. And then, finally, she sighed and turned to head back inside the house. "Let me know if I can help with anything, okay?" she said over her shoulder.

Lena smiled, touched. "Of course."

She would need to get control over her emotions before she made a fool of herself in front of the _beau monde_. She could not walk around as unguarded as she was now, prey to anything anyone said or did. She felt helpless.

Which made sense, when she thought about it. She had lived within a protective shell for her entire adult life, virtually oblivious and emotionally shielded to everything that might cause undue emotion. She needed time to gather her strength and relearn how to act like the jaded, cold-hearted debutante that everyone knew her as.

With a sigh, Lena turned to walk back into the house. Movement, like sunlight glittering off water, caught her eyes, and drew her gaze up to the attic windows, three stories up. Shadows within shadows. Nothing to be concerned about. And no one but the servants went up to the attic.

She shook her head, and realized that her hands were clenched into tight fists, straining the seams of her gloves. She relaxed. She had to stop trying to find him in shadows and illusions. She had enough to worry about with Stanford running like a rabbit in a hawk's shadow, and Margot learning her darkest secret, and her father and brother treating her like she was made out of glass.

She had to stop trying to find him. She would see him again in a few months.

For now, it would have to be enough that she had him in her dreams.


	14. Humanity

_ Much love to my beta, Kim, for helping me with the Cockney in this chapter, and for putting up with my slackassness, and for being my awesome grammar fairy. And for making me laugh by unintentionally waging war on my email inbox for several days. :D _

_ And a huge thank you to all of you awesome readers who have reviewed, messaged me, and/or favorited my story. You have been wonderfully patient while I packed up my life, moved 300 miles, and then turned around and moved right back a few months later. My mind has been horribly disorganized and uncreative. I'm not making any promises, of course. I don't make promises I can't keep. But I will try to keep a good pace going with this story and, for God's sake, give Samson and Lena a little time together soon._

_ Also, and I'll have you know I squealed like a little girl when I found this, if you want to know how I picture Samson in my mind and story, Google "Peter Steele." Oh, man. I get all fangirly. Just add the scars to him in your head. And undress him. Seriously, that picture of him shirtless? Mmmf._

_ Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy a chapter full of plotty things that are sadly lacking in romance. I'll get to it as soon as I can._

* * *

**HELENA**

"It's going to rain," Abby said with grave certainty as she stared up at the dark, heavy clouds that blanketed the sky.

Lena handed the last of their packages to Jacques, one of her footmen, so that he could load them into the carriage. Then she turned to her cousin.

"It's London," she said with a shrug. She knew what was coming. Abby never missed an opportunity to be dramatic.

"Two weeks," Abby stated. "Two weeks you've kept me locked in that house like a prisoner, and the one day you bring me outside, it's going to _rain_."

"I did not keep you locked in my house, Abigail," Lena replied with a laugh. She linked her arm in Abby's and pulled her along to the next block of shops. Jacques followed several steps behind them, and it comforted Lena to know that he was nearby. He was one of Margot's favorites, which was as much a curse as it was a blessing, considering Margot's penchant for terrorizing the household, and as such, had quickly become one of Lena's favorites as well. Margot seemed to have an eye for good men. Lena couldn't help but hope that this skill would not deteriorate by the time Margot was of marriageable age.

"Well, perhaps not locked, but as good as. England has made you cruel, Helena."

Lena grinned. It had been two weeks since she had last set foot outside of her house. It had taken her two weeks of careful discipline before she had trusted herself enough to reenter the _beau_ _monde_. A time during which Abby had nearly gone insane from boredom.

At Lena's request, Abby and Margot now spent most of their time trying to infuriate her. Deliberately. Even Greg had pitched in a few times. All so that Lena could learn how to control her temper, which had apparently become quite volatile.

Or perhaps it had _always_ been volatile, and she'd just never known it.

"Perhaps, but England has also made me generous to my cousin, who has not had a new dress in _ages_, and who has not seen a fashion plate fresh off the press since _time_ _immemorial_."

Abby's dark look disappeared, replaced by a cheeky grin.

"_Mais, oui_. The Frenchwoman in me is so ashamed." She paused, and then her eyes widened slightly. Lena followed her gaze to find the Earl of Montford striding towards them. "_Qui est-ce, Lena_?" Her voice lost all traces of amusement.

"That is Jasper, the Earl of Montford. A friend of Greg's, I believe, though I have only met him once."

Abby's grip tightened on Lena's arm. "_Il est tres beau_."

Lena laughed. Monty came to a stop in front of them and doffed his hat. "Lady Dubois, it is a pleasure." His warm, friendly gaze never wavered from Lena's. She gave him credit for that.

"Good morning, my lord. I do not believe you have met my cousin, Miss Abigail De Lacey." She turned to Abby, who seemed to be trying very hard not to stare at the earl. "Abby, may I present the Earl of Montford."

Monty's attention turned and focused directly on Abby, and for a moment the look on his face was so intense Lena felt the urge to step back. Then his eyes lit up, his charming smile returned, and he took Abby's gloved hand and lifted it to his lips.

"Please, call me Jasper," the earl said, his voice warm.

Lena raised an eyebrow. Then she smiled. "Abby, I do believe I've changed my mind about that bonnet I saw in Rivette's. I'll go get it. You stay right here. I'll be back in a moment."

Abby didn't respond. Monty nodded to her and sent her a sly smile.

Lena shot Jacques a pointed look, and he nodded as well. He would remain with the couple, as they required some form of supervision, while she walked the short distance back to the hat shop alone.

She hadn't made it thirty paces before she heard a sound that stopped her short. She wasn't sure what it was, but months of listening for the smallest hints of her companion's presence had sharpened her hearing exponentially. And this sound, whatever it was, made her skin crawl.

She backed up a few steps, and glanced down a side street. Merchants lined the walls selling cheap trinkets and pies. Lena started down the street, oblivious to the vendors who called out to her, hawking their wares. Her hands had balled into fists at her sides, but she did not notice. She could feel a dark, tight feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it refused to ease.

She walked faster, following her ears as much as her instinct, ignoring the eyes of strangers, ignoring the catcalls and the increasingly disreputable look of the streets she traversed. It was only a few turns from Bankton Street, where she had left Abby and the earl, but the streets had instantly grown narrower and dirtier. Pools of filthy water lined uneven cobblestones, and the buildings grew dark, stained by centuries of mold and mildew.

And then she turned into an alley, barely the width of her outstretched hands, and she found the source of the noise that had brought her running like a siren's call.

Three boys were gathered at the end of the alley, talking quietly amongst themselves. They were not terribly dirty, but their clothes showed wear and their shoes had holes.

But their status was of no interest to Lena.

Because they were crouched around something.

And that something was whimpering.

She walked towards them, and it struck her as odd that they did not notice her presence until she was nearly upon them. She cleared her throat. As one, they leapt to their feet and turned to face her, eyes wide and guilty.

"What are you doing?" Lena asked. She barely recognized her own voice. It was low, toneless, and threatening.

All three of them remained silent. Lena crouched down in front of them like she did when she was explaining something important to Margot. She looked each of them in the eye.

"Answer me," she commanded in that flat, hard voice.

"Tis a mongrel, lady," one of the boys said suddenly, his voice loud and defensive and almost incomprehensibly Cockney. He was the oldest of the three. Lena turned to him, fixed her gaze on him, and he shrank back. "Tis jus' a mongrel. It were eatin' a rat, an' it smelt Mickey's pie, an' it came affer us, it did!" He gestured to the youngest of the three, holding the remains of a small pie that had probably been a very special treat at one point. The boy looked about to cry.

Lena stood, oblivious to the stains on her gown, and motioned for the boys to step aside.

They hesitated at first, but then slowly each filed around to the side.

Lena's heart twisted with pain at the sight before her. Curled up in a ball, pressed tight inside the remains of a small wooden box, was a small dog. Its short, dark fur was matted and greasy. She could see the outline of its spine along its back.

Lena dropped to her knees. "_Oh, vous pouvre, je suis tres, tres désolé_." I'm so sorry.

She reached out and touched the dog gently on its paw, and it lifted its head wearily to stare at her. It bared its teeth, but did not seem to have the energy to do more than that. Running from three angry boys had taken a great toll on a creature that was starving to death. But other than malnutrition, the dog seemed unharmed.

Lena reached down and picked the dog up out of the wooden box. It did not fight, it simply curled up in her arms. It was about the size of a young foxhound, with stockier limbs, but it was terribly light for its size.

She turned around and found the boys still standing there, watching her in silence.

"Did you kick him?" Lena asked softly.

The youngest shook his head, staring mournfully at the remains of his food "I jus' wanted me pie back is all."

"You call 'er 'lady,' Mickey, as what she is," the oldest said quickly. " 'E ran off wif the pie an' we just chased him down here to get it back."

"You didn't harm him at all?" Something in her voice made all three of them flinch.

"I just smacked him once, across his nose, so he'd let go, is all. An' Jack poked at him wif a stick so's he wouldn't bite at us." He indicated the middle child, who stared back at Lena with a dark frown on his face.

"That thing stole my brover's pie, it did," the young Jack said stubbornly. "Mickey's never 'ad a beef pie before."

The dog was trembling in her arms. It needed warmth and food and rest. And quickly.

Lena crouched down again, slowly so as not to alarm her new charge, and glanced down at her arm.

"You see my coin purse, there?" she asked the eldest, showing him the small blue purse tied to her wrist. "I want you to take it. Untie the ribbon for me so I won't have to move him."

All three boys stared at her like she'd grown another head. "Are you daft, lady?" the eldest demanded. "I ain't takin' yer purse."

"You will do exactly as I say." Every word was pure British aristocrat. "Take my purse. It has a handkerchief, three shillings and some cards with my name on them inside." She pinned the eldest with her gaze until he reached out and tentatively untied the white ribbon. The purse dropped into his hand and he clutched it to his chest, eyeing her suspiciously. "I want you to buy your brother a new beef pie, and I want you to promise me that you will never harm an animal that is smaller and hungrier than you, ever again. Do you understand?"

"Lady, yer daft," Jack, the middle child, said in a wistful voice. Three shillings was a lot to three boys who couldn't afford beef pies or shoes without holes in them.

Lena nodded. "Probably. But I think that three angry boys could have very easily maimed or killed a small, starving dog, and you did not. Kindness like that should be rewarded. Don't you think?"

The eldest two boys nodded. The youngest, Mickey, smiled. "I get anuver beef pie, Lady?"

Lena nodded. "You do. But first, I would appreciate it if you gentlemen could help me find my way back to Bankton Street."

And so, with three young boys as escorts, Lena walked quickly back to Bankton, just as it started to rain. People stared at her. She ignored them. The three boys walked proudly, and more quietly than she would have expected, and when they reached Bankton Street, they stood to the side to let her pass. She smiled at them. "You are true gentlemen."

"What's yer name, Lady?" the eldest boy asked.

"You can call me Lena," she said, and she dipped her head to them. In unison, all three boys bowed at their waists, then turned around and ran off. They were quickly lost in the crowd. Lena turned and looked up the street. She saw Abby and Monty walking towards her, talking and laughing and completely absorbed in one another.

Jacques appeared at Lena's side. "The carriage is here, my lady," he said quickly. "Shall I take the dog for you?"

"No, Jacques, I can hold him." Jacques nodded and turned to open the carriage door. People were beginning to stop what they were doing and stare at the highborn young woman who sported dark stains all over her fine muslin dress. Lena could not give less of a damn. When Abby and Monty reached her, they did not bat an eye at her state of disarray. In unison, they flanked her, one on each side, and helped her up into the carriage as gently as possible to avoid jostling the dog. Lena settled in her seat with the dignity of the Queen. Abby joined her, and Monty hopped into the carriage and took the seat across from them. The door closed, and there was silence.

For the first time in what seemed like hours, Lena's heartbeat slowed from its rapidfire pace. She took a deep breath.

"I must say, Lady Helena, you are anything but boring," Monty said with a grin. Lena smiled.

"Is that a dog, Lena?" Abby asked softly, reaching over to gently touch the matted ball of dark fur in Lena's arms. Her expression was full of compassion and concern. She, like Lena, had a soft spot for animals.

"I believe so," Lena replied with a grin. "Perhaps a foxhound, but I cannot be sure."

Monty leaned over to get a closer look. At that moment, the dog lifted its head and fixed him with an unflinching stare. Monty leaned back again. "I'm afraid you are incorrect, Lady Helena. That is no foxhound."

Lena tilted her head at Monty. "No?"

Monty laughed. "Oh, no. What you've got there is a very young mastiff. They're used for bear-baiting. Or they were, before baiting was banned by the King a few weeks ago."

Abby frowned. "He cannot possible be young, look at the size of him."

Lena looked down at the little creature in her arms. As if he sensed her gaze, the puppy lifted his head and, without hesitation, licked her nose. She giggled. "I don't care what he is," she said quietly. "I am completely in love with him."

* * *

**GREGOIRE**

The Dubois household was in an uproar.

Well, no, that wasn't quite true.

The Dubois household was in more of an uproar than usual.

Gregoire heaved a long-suffering sigh as the sound of female laughter floated down the hallway and into the library, through closed doors. He had risen at dawn, and had so far managed to avoid being hunted down by one of his female relatives and dragged off to Hyde Park or a luncheon or a musical or some other form of civilized torment. And he damn well intended to keep it that way.

Ever since Abigail had arrived, and Lena had... changed... the entire household had come alive with energy and excitement. Lena practically hummed with it. It was hard to avoid, and exhausting for the Dubois men. They were always doing something. Especially Lena. After a few weeks of living like a recluse, she had thrown herself back into the _beau_ _monde_ with determined fervor. It was like she was deliberately keeping herself busy at all times, going on walks, going shopping, visiting museums and riding in the park. She never stood still.

And then there was Zeus. He followed her everywhere, her big, silent, intimidating shadow.

Certainly, there was nothing wrong with having a dog. But normal people had normal-sized dogs. Pugs. Poodles. Dogs that could not be confused with small horses.

Lena was not a normal person. When she got a dog she got a brindle mastiff that already weighed thirty pounds more than it had when she first brought it home, who ate his weight in meat every day and who was already bigger than an adult foxhound.

Oh, but she loved that dog. Abby and Margot were completely smitten as well. In fact, most of the household, with a few exceptions, absolutely doted on the puppy. The Dubois women's laughter would echo throughout the house, followed by Zeus's deep, playful bark. Balls would go skidding across polished wooden floors, followed closely by a skidding, scrabbling mastiff. The housekeeper, Maria, had cursed loudly and violently in Italian when she had first seen the scratch marks.

Greg shook his head and swirled his brandy around in its glass. He had found that it was better not to think about Helena too much. She was even more of a mystery to him than the rest of her species. In less than a fortnight, she had somehow managed to completely alter her personality. She had gone from being soft-spoken, tranquil and demure to being... well, something else entirely. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing; it was just highly unsettling.

She laughed, now. That was the thing that struck him the hardest. The first time she'd laughed, a few weeks ago at dinner, he had felt it like a punch to his sternum, like someone had knocked all the air out of his lungs. Her eyes had sparkled and brightened, and the sound of it had rolled over him like gentle waves. And for some odd and blasted reason, he'd felt tears stinging his eyes.

Him. Of all people.

All he had been able to think was, _God, she hasn't laughed like that since she was a child._

Greg shook his head again and lifted the glass to his lips, downing the last of his brandy in one gulp. He was just bored. He was going insane because he had nothing to do, nothing with which to occupy his mind. He was getting sentimental and emotional and over-analyzing everything.

He needed a hobby.

A sharp knock sounded on the library door. Greg closed his eyes.

"Please God, anything but shopping," he muttered as the doors swung open. Heavy footsteps, and the sounds of a quiet but furious struggle.

Greg opened his eyes to find Jasper, Earl of Montford, standing before him, holding a younger version of himself in a death grip. Both of them sported torn shirts and a variety of cuts and bruises.

"Monty," Greg said with a nod, and then fixed his gaze on Jasper's younger half-brother. "Edison."

"Top of the morning, Greg," Monty said in an easy tone. He released Edison and dropped into one of the soft leather armchairs near the fire. Edison stood by the door, edging towards it. "Don't even think about it, Ed. After the trouble you've put me through, I will not hesitate to truss you up like so much cattle."

Edison went still, but his eyes remained shifty.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," Greg stated. Then he heaved himself up out of his chair and walked over to the liquor cabinet to grab two more crystal glasses. "I hope you used the servants' entrance."

Monty grinned. "Of course we did. I even managed not to cross paths with the women. And that's no simple feat. This house is crawling with them, you know."

"Believe me. I know."

"What in the bloody hell are we doing here, Jasper?" Edison demanded from the doorway. Monty sighed, and accepted the glass Greg offered him with a nod of thanks. He downed it in one gulp.

"We're here because Gregoire Dubois is the only thing right now that's standing between you and total exile from polite society, a challenge at dawn, and probably a painful, miserable, and dishonorable death," Monty replied, his voice slightly hoarse from the shot of brandy.

Greg met Edison's eyes as he sat back down in his chair. He arched one blonde eyebrow, the signature Dubois look; expectant, slightly haughty, with a hint of amused. "What in heaven's name did you do, Edison?"

Edison's pale cheeks flushed in embarrassment. He looked away from Greg. Monty answered for him.

"He chased the wrong skirt."

"That so?"

Monty stood up and wandered back to the brandy decanter. "There's more. It's bad."

Greg went quiet for a moment, frowning. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for Monty. They were in the same line of work. And Monty had saved his life on more than one occasion. "If I can help, I will."

Monty sighed. Turned with a full glass in hand and leaned back against the glass cabinet. "Daphne Portsfield."

Greg's heart dropped a little bit. "The Duke of Westchester's illegitimate daughter?" He noted the way Edison's eyes flashed at the mention of Daphne's status. Greg dismissed the boy's anger. He could not care less about the girl's legitimacy. Children did not choose to be mistakes. They should not have to suffer for their parents'.

"The very same," Monty said quietly. "She has been compromised. Thoroughly"

Greg's heart dropped a little further. "You don't mean she's..."

Monty's eyes darkened. "Quite so."

"Mon Dieu, Edison!" Greg cursed, running a hand through his hair, tossing unruly blonde curls into his eyes, and then he jumped up and started pacing He didn't miss the fact that Edison went very, very still the moment he stood.

Greg sighed. Thanks to his mother, he had been sent to English schools as a boy. He had known Monty since Eton. He had been there when Monty's mother had died. He had been there when Monty's father had remarried, and died shortly afterwards in a carriage accident. He had been there when Monty had returned from the war to find that his stepmother, Eliza - Edison's mother - had married a cruel, abusive son of a bitch while Monty was too far away to do anything about it, and that Edison had been the one to bear the brunt of the cruelty and abuse. He went over and dipped his head close to Monty's

"Does Eliza know?"

"I'd sooner kill her than tell her," Monty replied in a low, feral voice.

"Who else knows?"

Monty took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes gingerly. "Her maid. She is loyal. I have two servants in her household keeping an eye on the state of gossip." He winced as he touched the cut on his forehead.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Monty lifted his head and sent his brother a dark look. "He went missing two nights ago. I went looking for him. I found him in a tavern by the docks, stone drunk and in the process of picking a fight with three very large sailors. Afterwards, he told me about Daphne."

Greg frowned, and thought for a moment. "I can't unmake a baby, Monty. I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good."

That, at least, brought a smile to his friend's face. And then it faded.

"Greg, he's just a kid. His bitch mother kept him shut away in the country until I came home and sent him to Eton, and by then he was already mostly grown. He doesn't know anything about the real world, the _beau monde_. He doesn't even know how to dance."

Greg felt his eyebrows creeping upwards, but he couldn't stop the surprise. "You're asking me to teach Edison to… to be a gentleman?"

Monty shrugged helplessly. "If he can learn to act civilized, he might be able to convince Westchester to accept his offer. He's a good catch, and he's not broke, despite Eliza's greatest attempts."

Greg felt the weight of this task settling on his shoulders before he'd even agreed to it.

"How long do we have?"

"Before she can't hide it anymore? Three to six months, according to the physician I consulted."

Greg couldn't help but grin. Monty's definition of consulting with someone usually involved a surprise visit and a quick, thorough interrogation. And, more often than not, a weapon.

He pitied the poor doctor Monty had "consulted."

"We'll go with caution and say three months. That's about the end of the season, when my mother holds her annual masquerade. We'll shoot for an engagement announcement at _La Masque_. After that, they can go to the country or tour the continent and wait out the gossip storm after the baby is born three months early. _Une minute_." Greg turned abruptly and locked his gaze on Edison, who froze like a frightened rabbit. "Edison, do you love Daphne?"

Edison frowned. "O'course I do," he snapped. "She's the best thing what's ever happened to me."

Greg nodded. "And does she feel the same way about you?"

The boy actually blushed. "She says so."

"Excellent."

And like that, the plan started to click into place. Fragments of thoughts, ideas, snippets of conversation, flickered through Greg's head as he started to outline a rough timetable in his mind. Monty poured a glass of brandy for Edison and took it over to him.

"My little brother. Getting married. A hard thing to swallow, I'd say." The animosity drained out of Edison when he heard the fond tone in his big brother's voice. He grinned.

"Hitched before you, Jas. Who'da thought?"

Greg winced at Edison's street slang. That would be the first thing to go.

"From what I've heard, she is a lovely young woman. I'm sure the two of you will be fine."

He saw Monty's gaze sharpen as a thought crossed through his mind. "Speaking of women. How is it that I have managed to be friends with you for over a decade and you never mentioned that you had a ridiculously beautiful cousin named Abigail?"

Greg reached blindly for the brandy decanter.

This was going to be a very long summer.

**SAMSON**

Samson sat in the darkness of the kitchen storage room, still and focused, surrounded by shelves full of napkins and tablecloths. With his exceptional hearing, he had picked up the conversation going on in the library, the room directly above him, without difficulty. He would have been able to hear most of it from the attic, had he been able to get to the attic. But early that morning he'd snuck down to the kitchen to grab a loaf of bread and some cheese, and before he could slip away he'd heard Gregoire's footsteps echoing through the house.

Lena's brother had uncannily sharp senses, and he had caught very slight hints of Samson's presence several times before. Samson could not risk being found out, not now. Not when he'd just started experiencing Lena's laughter. And so he had taken refuge in a dark storage room, and had resolved to wait it out.

Thinking of Lena brought a smile to his lips. So did the memories of the past few weeks. She slept without fear, without a single disturbance. She smiled in her sleep, and she reached for him instinctively when he pressed a soft kiss to her lips every morning before he left. But he was always gone before she opened her eyes.

She slept well even when he wasn't there. But she didn't smile as much.

He wasn't sure how he knew that. He just knew.

The sound of footsteps brought him back to the present. Gregoire was completely absorbed in his friend's predicament, so he wouldn't be listening for mysterious sounds, or looking for mysterious shadows.

Samson made his way through the kitchen stealthily. It was mid-morning, and the cooks and maids were busy preparing lunch for the Dubois family and their visitors. They talked and laughed and argued jovially, and they made such a racket that Samson rather thought he could stroll right through the kitchen and not a one of them would notice.

But, of course, he would never do that.

Instead he slipped through the shadows, cloaked in darkness and silence. He was utterly in control of his body. He could move through a forest of dry leaves without making a whisper of sound. When he was concentrating like this, he was as good as invisible.

He almost made it to the attic before he was spotted. He froze as a low, rumbling bark echoed from the servant's hallway behind him.

Samson turned slowly, saw the glint of Zeus's eyes in the dim light, and grinned.

"Hello, my friend," he said, crouching low. Zeus scrabbled forward on the slick wooden floor and ran full tilt into Samson's arms, leaping up to place his big paws on Samson's shoulders. He could barely reach, for he was still nowhere near the size he would be when fully grown. But he licked Samson's face happily, and Samson couldn't resist laughing.

It was amazing, how a dog who had had such a dark, cruel beginning in life could have adjusted to become so good-natured. "Perhaps you could tell me your secret, one day," he said, scratching behind Zeus's ears. The dog's thick tail whumped against the floor.

Lena's voice echoed from downstairs, calling for Zeus. "Go on, your mother is calling you. Take care of her."

Zeus turned obediently and trotted off towards Lena's voice. Samson continued up to the attic without incident.

And there he sat, and stared out of one of the old, warped glass windows, listening to the sounds of the house, of the people that made the house so full of love and life and joy. He listened subconsciously for the sound of Lena's voice. Her laughter. When he heard it, a quiet echo, pleasure flickered through him, and he smiled. One day, he would hear that laugh in person.

Perhaps that day would be coming sooner than he had expected.

It seemed that the fates had thrown him another card. He didn't know where it would lead, or if it would do him any good at all. But it was going to happen.

He was going to learn how to become a gentleman.

And Lena's brother was going to teach him.


	15. Man

_As always, I want to thank my lovely, patient, and wonderful beta, Kim. Thank you for Anne of Green Gables, my friend. And thank you for your insight, your questions, and your opinions._

_I'm planning my wedding, so that's where I've been, in case anyone was wondering. Planning a wedding is a pain in the ass, let me tell you. Oh, I've also been lazy. So. Yeah._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**HELENA**

Abigail was fidgeting. Abigail only fidgeted when she was extremely apprehensive. Elegant fingers gloved in fine white silk kept winding the ribbon that held her reticule to her wrist into tight curls and then drawing it into a punishingly taut line. Lena watched in silence from across the carriage as it swayed to a stop in front of Ashton House. Only then did Abby's hands freeze. The buzzing of hundreds of voices in the ballroom was audible even from the street.

Lena glanced up and met Abby's eyes. They were slightly widened, and her face was pale. Lena's mother and brother remained oblivious to the fear etched in every line of Abby's body, and Lena instantly felt her heart constrict in empathy. She reached over and clasped Abby's stiff hands with both of hers.

"_Tu seras_ _bien_," Lena said firmly. _You will be fine._ The carriage door opened, and Lena waited until the rest of her family had alighted before standing and descending from the carriage. Abby came to stand beside Lena, and Lena imagined she could feel her cousin trembling. "Abigail," she said softly, "do not be afraid. No one will be unkind to you, I promise."

Abby shot her a dubious glance. "Do not make promises you cannot keep, cousin. I am no one."

"You are a Dubois," Lena replied simply. Abby's lips twitched as if she wanted to grin.

"Such arrogance, Helena," she murmured.

Lena shrugged, a quintessentially French gesture. "It is the only thing that matters to these people."

Gregoire stepped forward to claim Abigail's arm and lead her inside, while Lena and her mother followed. At the door, they were announced by the butler.

"The Baron of Aguessac, the Honorable Miss De Lacey, the Viscountess of Millau, and Lady Helena Dubois."

Every person within hearing distance turned immediately to view the newcomer in the Dubois family, eyes alight with curiosity and surprise. Abby tensed slightly, and Lena's heart went out to her. Greg covered his cousin's hand with his own and steered her serenely towards their hosts.

Abby made a perfect curtsey to the Earl and Countess Ashton, exchanged casual pleasantries, and proceeded to the ballroom.

Lena and her mother approached, and curtseyed to the couple. The Earl and Countess greeted them both warmly, and with genuine smiles.

"Such a fine gentleman, Ashton," Lena's mother mused as they passed through the large doors and into the ballroom. It was the first thing she had said all evening. Lena looked at her with some surprise. "The Countess, as well. They have a son, you know."

Lena froze, bracing herself. Her mother, back in her matchmaking days, had been the one to introduce her to Stanford. Lena had long suspected that her mother harbored a great deal of guilt about that. She had never broached the subject of marriage after Stanford had left.

"Do not look so horrified, Helena," her mother said mildly, accepting a glass of lemonade from a passing servant. "He married several months ago; we were still in France at the time. Lovely young woman. Her name is Lillian, I believe. She is a commoner. Caused quite an uproar _en la beau monde_, as you might expect. Samantha wrote me immediately, as she thought I might enjoy a story so similar to my own."

Lena suppressed a surprised laugh. Her mother's casual comparison of her marriage to the marriage of Ashton's son was laughable.

"_Maman_, you married _le Vicomte de Millau_, one of the oldest and noblest bloodlines in France. That is nothing like marrying a commoner."

Lena's mother raised both of her eyebrows and shot her daughter a quelling look. "I am the eldest daughter of the Duke of Adinborough. Before I married your father, I was twelfth in line to the English throne." She had, of course, been forced to give up that particular right when she married a Frenchman. The House of Lords had not taken kindly to the idea of having a Frenchman twelve paces from becoming King Consort.

Lena didn't bother to point out the fact that her mother was just as wealthy as she would have been had she married an English Marquess or Earl. Nor did she mention the fact that her mother had married for love, and had spent much of her life in blissful happiness amidst the rolling hills, ancient forests, and quiet fields of southern France.

"As it stands, they are currently touring the continent until the worst of the scandal blows over."

They reached the opposite end of the ballroom, nodding and smiling and greeting friends and acquaintances. Once there, Gregoire appeared with Abigail at his side, as they had arranged. The _ton_, Gregoire had often said, was very like the African savannah: full of predators waiting for the first hint of weakness to strike. They could not let anyone think there was any reason Abby should be protected from poking and prying.

It could not appear that the Dubois family had any reason to protect or shelter Abigail, who by all rights should not have been present at a ball as anything more than a lady's companion or a chaperone. But Lena had refused to treat Abby as anything less than her equal. And so the Dubois family had decided, with Abigail's whole-hearted permission, to bring Abby as a Dubois and nothing less.

"Why are you telling me all of this, _Maman_?" Lena demanded as her temper began to fray. She did not want to be in this miserably hot ballroom, making pleasantries with idiots, when she could be at home playing with Zeus or reading to Margot or enjoying dreams of her dark companion.

Regina Victoria Dubois, Viscountess of Aguessac, tilted her head up at her daughter and replied in a bland voice, "No reason in particular my dear. I just thought you might like to catch up on the gossip. Ashton, you see, he supported his son's decision completely." Lena blinked, and her mother turned, gestured for Abby to accompany her, and then strolled away, murmuring, "Such a nice man."

Lena stared after her, anger forgotten, replaced instead by a growing certainty that her mother had gone mad. Lena did not gossip. Lena hated gossip. It was the thing that had nearly ruined her life two years ago, when everywhere she turned she heard whispers about her and Stanford.

The babble of a hundred conversations rumbled through her head as she gazed around the crowd.

"Lena," Greg's slightly bored voice brought her back to attention, "did you hear me?"

"Of course I did," she replied instantly. Greg raised one golden eyebrow and Lena nodded haughtily. "But you may repeat the question if you like."

"Will you be dancing, tonight?" His voice was loud enough for those closest to them to hear. Lena made a show of looking thoughtful, while sending daggers at her brother through her eyes.

"I do believe I shall."

Five minutes later, no less than eight peers of the realm were standing around her, trying their best to charm her out of her wits. Gregoire stood politely to the side, trying not to laugh.

After she chose her partners, the group dispersed. Lena returned to her brother's side.

Humor danced in their eyes as they struggled to maintain cool, impassive facades in front of the _beau monde_. Several pairs of eyes watched them from every angle. The golden Dubois siblings, arrogant, calm, and beautiful. Gregoire, the sophisticated, suave gentleman who rarely danced and smiled even less, whose skin was darkened by sun and wind and adventure. Helena, the elegant, untouchable beauty who would not dance with anyone below the rank of Viscount, whose cool demeanor had given her the nickname Ice Queen, a name she pretended to disdain while secretly encouraging.

Lena wondered idly what her companion would think if he ever saw how she acted at balls, or at salons and dinner parties. The thought made her heart tighten in her chest. What if he thought she was being genuine? Would he hate her for her arrogance?

Her attitude, this display she put on for the _beau monde_, was the only thing that kept her and Gregoire sane at social gatherings. It was a game they played, to see who could last the longest before the laughter that threatened to burst forth at any moment forced one of them to go for refreshments, or get some air, or join a card game. The loser had to dance at the next ball. The winner did not.

Judging by their reputations, Lena decided that Gregoire won too often. That would not do.

She was concentrating on her strategy, standing in companionable silence with her brother, and she didn't notice the couple that approached them until they were standing right in front of her.

"Lady Dubois, what a pleasant surprise," came the soft, raspy voice of Susanna Bennington. Lena's eyes focused instantly, latching onto the face of the woman who had always hated her for no reason.

Susanna, Baroness Bennington, was a small woman with dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. She was wearing a very expensive watered silk ball gown, and her signature necklace, a thick ribbon embellished with lace and gems, that encircled her throat. Her features were delicate and fine, her hair rich, and her skin pale, and she would have been beautiful if not for the expression of mild disgust that lived constantly on her face. She had tried so hard to lure Stanford into her snares, two years earlier, proving herself to be malicious, conniving, and spoiled. Now, Lena couldn't help but wish that she had succeeded.

They deserved each other.

Lena leveled her gaze on Susanna and raised her eyebrows, waiting to be properly acknowledged. This, too, was part of the façade that Lena wore, but in Susanna's case, it was a façade that she quite enjoyed.

Because even though Susanna was the wife of a Baron, as the daughter of a Viscount, the sister of a Baron, and the granddaughter of a Duke, Helena outranked her.

Susanna's lips thinned and she dipped an extremely shallow curtsey. Her husband bowed politely. He was not the brightest, and he _had_ decided to marry Susanna, so Lena could not help but feel a modicum of pity for the poor man. She returned their courtesies with a nod of her head.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Bennington," Lena said in an even, cool tone. The Baron turned to Gregoire and started talking idly about the weather. It was obvious that the only one who wanted to talk among the four of them was Susanna.

"I'm sure," Susanna replied loftily, scanning the crowd through slightly narrowed eyes. "Quite the crush Ashton has here. I'm sure the Countess is thrilled."

"Yes, of course."

_And I'm sure neither of us has any interest in small talk, so get on with it._ She turned her head and met Greg's eyes, and the expression in her gaze made him grin. Lena's heart leapt with triumph, and Greg immediately scowled. He had lost this round. He had showed amusement on his face. He would have to dance at the next ball.

"I am surprised to see you after your lengthy absence," Susanna noted, scanning Lena's pale green gown as if she might be able to find visible evidence of scandal. Lena's already frayed temper began to flare. "No one saw you for weeks after you spoke with Viscount Stanford at the opera."

What if that entire tray of champagne somehow mysteriously flew through the air and drenched Susanna's delicate watered-silk dress? Could she make it happen? Perhaps. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she calculated the trajectory and force that would be necessary. Then she sighed very softly.

"Was that when I fell ill? What a coincidence. I cannot remember much after the fever set in. It took me weeks to recover."

Susanna narrowed her eyes further, until she looked rather like a disgruntled, suspicious mouse. "A coincidence. Of course."

Lena nodded, trying to look slightly pale. It was a difficult job. One could not usually control where the blood in one's body went. But she tried.

"Stanford left the country," Susanna said suddenly. Was there a hint of accusation in her voice?

Why would Susanna care if Stanford left the country?

Lena tried to look surprised. "Again?"

"Shortly after you… recovered from your illness."

Lena felt a tingle at the nape of her neck, one that she recognized immediately. She had to fight every instinct in her body to turn and search out the source of that familiar gaze. She was done looking for him in shadows and smoke. If he had come to England, he would make her aware of his presence when he was ready.

If not, it was just one more sign that she was probably going mad.

"How unfortunate. We were just becoming reacquainted." Thinking of Stanford reminded her of the look of stark terror that had haunted his eyes that day in the gardens. What could possibly have frightened him so badly that he had fled the country?

Something flashed in Susanna's eyes, there and gone so quickly that Lena almost missed it. But she recognized hatred when she saw it. She readied herself to fend off an attack, just in case Susanna decided to try to scratch her eyes out.

Stanford, terrified in the garden, vanishing from London. Susanna, furious and hateful.

Good God, they'd been having an affair.

The miserable bastard. He had cast off Susanna when Lena had come along, and then gone right back to her after he'd grown tired of Lena. No matter Susanna's marital status.

"Helena, I do believe our mother is looking for you."

Lena blinked up at Greg, and the concern in his eyes brought her back to reality, helped her to fight the crushing wave of fury and hatred that seethed through her. She had worked hard for the ability to control her new emotions. She would not fail herself or her family.

"Of course," she said, forcing her tone light and nonchalant. "If you will excuse me, Lady Bennington," she gave Susanna the barest of nods, and a slight curtsey to the Baron, and then she turned on her heel and walked away. The murmurs of her sudden dismissal of the couple followed her across the ballroom, but she was past caring. No one liked Baroness Bennington very much, and Lena had a hard-won reputation for being arrogant and cold.

She met her mother and Abigail near the large set of French doors that led out to the gardens. They were chatting with the Earl and Countess Ashton. Jasper, Earl of Montford, stood next to Abby, smiling and chatting amiably with her. Lena's heart warmed. In this great chess game of the _beau monde_, having another Earl support Abby's presence made it much less likely that anyone would snub her.

Lena curtseyed to the Earls and greeted everyone else in turn. Greg made a discreet gesture with his hand, and their mother cleared her throat on cue.

"Lena, my dear, you are looking pale. Do you feel well?" Every gaze turned and centered directly on her face, some concerned, some (like Abby's and Monty's) slightly amused, while Lena did her best to look pale and weak. How, exactly, did one go about looking weak? She hoped she was doing a convincing job of it, as she was supposed to have been at death's door just a few weeks earlier.

The back of her neck tingled again, and a hulking shadow moved out in the darkness of the gardens, deliberate and controlled, like a giant predator. She knew that shadow. She knew his height and the curve of his shoulders.

Lena's vision sparkled as the blood drained completely from her face. All traces of amusement vanished from the eyes of those watching her, and all three men moved forward instinctively to catch her in case she collapsed. She reached out and found Greg's arm, latching onto him with desperate strength. She could not trust herself to control her emotions if she thought he was here. Watching her.

"I have to leave," she said faintly, taking several deep breaths. She met Ashton's pale brown gaze. The concern there, the warmth and kindness in his eyes, reminded her of her father. "I am so sorry, my lord. But I cannot stay."

"No need to apologize, Lady Dubois. I can see you have not completely recovered from your illness."

Lena shifted her gaze over his shoulder, to the gardens. "Sometimes I think I never will," she said softly. She managed a curtsey to Ashton and his wife, and let her brother lead her blindly out of the ball.

* * *

**SAMSON**

A warm fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a golden glow over Lena's room. Samson lounged in his armchair next to her bed, and the only sounds that permeated the stillness of the night were the fire and Zeus's soft snores.

_This must be what peace feels like_, Samson thought as he leaned his head back against the padded chair. Through half-closed eyes, he watched Lena, curled up in a nest of blankets. He felt warmth slide through him as he studied her, studied the lines and curves of her body, the tumbling curls of her hair, the small smile on her lips.

He wondered idly what she would say if she knew that he could waltz. That he could dance the quadrille, and bow at the perfect degree to a Baron, an Earl, a Duke, a Viscount, and the Prince Regent himself. That he could mimic the dialect of highborn English peers perfectly, just as she did.

Her brother's lessons were coming along well, both for Samson and for Montford's unfortunate younger brother. And the lessons would continue for them both, though Samson was beginning to question the usefulness of them for himself. What would be the point of acting like a gentleman? He knew very well that he wasn't. He knew that learning the right fork to use for the third course of a seven course meal would never help him in any way. He knew that time was slowly, painfully, and surely running out.

Dawn was creeping up on him, casting pale blue light through the heavy brocade curtains. As he watched the light slowly brighten, he felt a sudden snap of irritation. At time. At the sun. At the world that had cursed him as a monster and driven him into hiding. At a father and a God that had abandoned him to misery and despair.

At himself, for being such a coward that he, even now, could not think about fully showing himself to Lena without feeling a bolt of terror electrify his body. Even when Margot saw him on a daily basis, and showed no more fear of him than she would a kitten.

The fear was too great, too deeply ingrained into him, to overcome. But at least he was able to sit with her in the firelight, a feat he had not been able to stomach before he came to England.

"My name is Samson," he told her, reaching out to brush his knuckles gently over her cheek. "It was Margot's idea. She found me in the library one evening. I'm sure you can imagine how that went." He smiled "She has courage. Just like you,_ ma cherie_."

Lena stirred, and Samson instantly withdrew his touch. At the sudden movement, Zeus lifted his head from his paws and tilted it up at Samson questioningly.

"_Ce n'est rien_, Zeus," he said in a calming voice. _It is nothing_. "But you would not want to be around if she found out I was here."

Given the depth of emotions he had seen in Lena lately, her temper was not something to be taken lightly.

He stood silently, and leaned over the bed, brushing his lips over hers, catching his breath at the bolt of electricity that shot through him. Every time. Every time he touched her, it felt like he had come back to life. Like he had stepped out of the frigid arctic snows and into a room filled with books, a roaring fire, and… her.

Lena took a deep breath, and reached for him instinctively, but he retreated before she could touch him.

He stood over her, watching over her, as always.

All he ever did was watch. With the exception of the mistakes of his past, and the few times that Lena had gotten the best of him with her charm, all he had ever done was watch from afar as others went about their lives. Some in peace and happiness, others in hardship and despair.

In the early years of his life, when he first tried to join them, they rejected him. They screamed. They cursed him for a monster and beat him.

What was he now? A shadow haunting a highbred young woman? A monster tormenting himself with thoughts of a life that could never, ever be?

He didn't know anymore. For so long, he had only been one thing: wretched. He had defined himself through his vengeance and his misery and his hatred. What else had there been for him, in the beginning? He had been born into a world of pain. His own father had first looked upon him with revulsion and fear. Any small measure of peace or joy he had managed to find had been savagely ripped from his grasp. He had tried so very hard to understand what was happening to him. He had struggled through the pain and had been met with nothing but _more_ pain. He had raged and wept and prayed to a cruel and uncaring God. And eventually he gave in to a fate that seemed inevitable. He had eagerly drowned himself in fury and hatred and death.

Now, standing over the sleeping woman who had so effortlessly captured his heart, the woman that he would do _anything_ for, he realized just how thoroughly he had changed in the past several months.

Now, he felt like so many different things. Friend, lover, guardian, conspirator. And the first thing that came to his mind when he thought of himself was no longer _monster_ or _murderer_. It was not _creature_ or _demon_ or _wretched._

It was just…

_Man._

But he never let himself forget that he was a murderer, and he never once forgot that he was not human and that the path that he was travelling now would most likely end in disaster. The fear wouldn't let him forget. It was always there, now, waiting at the back of his mind to pounce upon him like a cat on a mouse whenever he dropped his guard. The fear that it would all be taken from him. That he would lose her somehow; that she would find another, that she would see his face and that her expression – that patent mixture of revulsion and fear – would rip open his heart and leave him in a state so miserable that just contemplating it made him want to hit something.

And the worst fear was that she would reject him not because of his looks or because she did not return his feelings, but for his past.

For the fact that he had killed a child.

"I may never deserve you," he said, watching the even rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, watching the small smile that always curled her lips when her instincts told her he was near. "But I will never stop trying."

The sky was turning gray, now, casting the room in grim monochromatic light. She wouldn't be up for another several hours, but the servants would all be awake within the next thirty minutes.

He had to leave.

_Why not just stay? _some small, treacherous part of him demanded. _Why can't she know?_

He curled his hands into fists to control the overwhelming urge to touch her, to reach out and trace the elegant lines of her face with his fingertips. Why not? It was a very good question.

Because he had no plan, no miraculous idea that would allow them to be together without either forcing her to abandon her family and join him in the wilderness, or resigning himself to being a shadow and keeping their relationship a secret for the rest of their lives.

Neither of those futures was a plausible one. Lena loved her family far too much to cut ties with them completely, and he would never be content with just sharing the darkness with her. He wanted the light as well, and everything that came with it. God help him.

God help him. Because all of those impossible futures, all of his reasoning, all of the time his highly analytical brain had spent dissecting and reviewing and rearranging information, all of it had led him to one simple, terrible conclusion.

If everything continued as it was, and no new elements were introduced into their lives that might help him achieve his goal…

He was going to have to leave her.

Forever.

And it was going to kill him.


	16. Reunited

**HELENA**

Morning had never been Lena's favorite time of day; even when she was a child, before the night terrors began, she had always preferred to sleep until the sun was high and bright in the sky. She didn't like the mournful feeling of dawn, the struggle of the sun as it tried to bring warmth and light back into the world. After the terrors began, she had hated rising to the worried eyes of the servants, who had heard her screams in their quarters, or the tense lines on her parents' faces after they had spent the night trying to comfort their frightened daughter.

She'd liked morning even less after she met her companion, when she had to open her eyes every day to a room filled only with dull gray light. When she could still smell pine and wood smoke and lavender in the air, as if he had only just left. As if she might have seen him if she had opened her eyes a few moments earlier.

But now, she woke up every morning, shortly after dawn, to a big, beautiful, droopy face resting on her pillow, snuffling softly and licking her hands and face, and, if she didn't get up fast enough for Zeus's liking, a few pitiful whines. And she would pull herself out of bed and stumble over to her dressing room, pulling on her robe, cinching it about her waist, while Zeus sat patiently at the door. He was already tall enough to lick the doorknob.

He would walk at her side silently as they made their way down the servant's stairs and through the kitchen, careful to stay out of the way of the servants and the cook, Mrs. Wenham, at which point Zeus would pause hopefully at the door of the large pantry, where he knew his treats were kept. And Lena would shake her head and open the door to the herb garden, and Zeus would rocket out into the blue-gray morning light, a big black blur, to terrorize whatever small creatures were currently feasting on Mrs. Wenham's herb garden.

At first, the servants had been downright horrified that Lena was seeing to her dog's needs, as she did have a personal maid, Eleanor, and wouldn't Eleanor be perfectly capable of taking the creature outside a few times every day?

Lena, of course, had said no. Not only was Eleanor absolutely terrified of Zeus, but Lena really had nothing better to do in the morning, and she hated the idea of pushing her dog on someone else and then rolling over and going back to sleep. So she woke up a few hours after the servants every morning, and joined them for a cup of tea at the big, worn table in the kitchen. After a few weeks, they became more or less used to Lena's presence, and no longer felt that it was necessary to walk on eggshells around her.

The feeling of being able to just sit and think, or chat amiably with the maids, or joke with the grooms, and not have to worry about her posture, or the exact level to which she must curtsey, or the proper words to greet the second son of an Earl... It was delightful. And liberating.

"Beggin' your pardon, miss," Emily, one of the upstairs maids, bobbed her head as she stepped into the kitchen, "but your brother is asking for you."

Lena frowned. "Greg's awake?"

"Up at the crack of dawn, miss, every day." Emily's eyes took on that distant, slightly glazed look that so many women got when Greg was brought up in conversation. Lena rolled her eyes, a gesture that the stable boys were quite fond of using when their superiors had their backs turned.

"Where is he?"

"In the library, miss."

"Thank you, Emily," Lena said, draining the last of her tea and standing from the table with a sigh. On her way out of the kitchen, she opened the back door and found Zeus sitting patiently on the step, guarding his latest prize possession. A stick. "Very well, bring it in. But please stop hiding them in Greg's dressing room. I don't think his valet can take much more of it."

Zeus clamped the stick very gently in his massive jaws and lumbered inside, falling into step behind Lena as she wove her way out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards the main floor of the house.

Greg was, indeed, waiting for her in the library, lounging in an armchair by the fireplace with a glass in one hand and a closed book in the other. He was looking at the book like he wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

"Having trouble with the alphabet, big brother?" Lena mused, sliding into the armchair across from him with a grin.

Greg did not smile back. He looked up from the book and Lena realized that there were shadows under his eyes. His mouth was set in a grim line. He was still wearing his evening clothes from the night before.

"You know me, Lena," he said quietly. "I am a very fastidious person."

Fastidious was an understatement. Greg had always been very particular about where he put things and how he organized his life. Sometimes, he had to repeat tasks several times so that he would know for sure that he had done them properly. Lena had, when they were children, delighted in tormenting him by misplacing his books or toys. Until she had realized that it truly upset him to have his things moved or hidden.

"Yes," she said with a nod.

"Have you been reading my books?" The question was abrupt, and his voice was sharp.

"No, Greg," Lena replied slowly. "I haven't. I never go into your room."

He was quiet for a few moments, and then he leaned forward and handed her the book he'd been holding. Lena picked it up and turned it over to read the title, embossed in gold ink: A Treatise on Human Nature by David Hume. Lena frowned.

"I found it sitting on my escritoire this morning," Greg said. "I distinctly remember putting it on my bookshelf three days ago."

Lena believed him. He would remember putting a book away because he would take the time to line up the spine of each book so that they sat in a perfect row, organized by height.

"One of the servants, perhaps?" Lena suggested, and Greg raised one eyebrow at her.

"They know better," he replied.

"Papa?"

"He would have mentioned it to me."

"Margot?"

"Natural philosophy? At her age?" Greg's tone was mocking.

Lena sent him a dark frown. "Why don't you just get to the point and tell me who you think it is, then?" she snapped.

Greg sat up, put the book and his glass down on the table next to his chair, and leaned forward.

"I haven't the slightest," he said with a shrug. He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. "But it keeps happening, little things, here and there. Not always my things, but I notice it nonetheless. Sometimes I think I see..." He shook his head, as if to clear an errant thought from his mind, and sighed. "I think I might be going mad." His voice was raw, and he looked downright haggard, his golden hair standing on end and his cravat hanging loosely around his neck. Lena felt a pang of sympathy for her big brother, the one who had always tried to protect her, even from her own dreams.

When they were little, he had offered to sleep outside her door to protect her from what frightened her so badly in her sleep. He had brought her flowers from the fields, and stolen sweets from the kitchen, and spent hours each night telling her stories about brave knights who vanquished evil dragons and saved princesses.

And he had kept the secret of her nightmares, just as she had kept the secret of his obsessive need to organize his belongings.

He had been there, after all, when she had fallen into the river.

He had seen the thing that was chasing her.

"No, Greg," she said, her voice firm and soft, "you are not going mad. Neither of us are."

Something in her tone brought his gaze up, and he locked eyes with hers. He hesitated. They had never spoken of what they had seen that day in the forest, when Lena had fallen into the river and nearly drowned. Lena suspected that Greg had feared he would make her night terrors worse by talking about it. And even now, she thought that he feared it might cause her terrors to return.

"Lena, to this day I do not understand what it is we saw," he whispered. "But if that thing... that monster... is here..."

"Then I doubt it would spend its time moving around books and trinkets just to upset you," Lena said quickly, and more sharply than she had intended. Then she sighed, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft. "You are overthinking everything because your mind is unoccupied. Get some sleep," She stood up, and pulled him to his feet, watching him sway as he oriented himself properly. "You are not meant for this life of idleness; you always get like this when you have nothing to do." He blinked down at her.

"I suppose you're right," he said with a nod.

"I'm always right," she replied instantly. That earned a small grin from her brother, at least. "Now, go. Sleep all day like a lazy English gentleman."

"I shall try," he said, and he turned to make his way out of the library. But he paused at the doorway, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Do you have any plans for this afternoon?"

"I don't believe so."

"Then meet us in the ballroom at three, will you? It's dashed awkward to dance with another man."

Lena could only stare at the empty space at the doorway for several moments after he left.

What in Heaven's name did that mean?

* * *

**SAMSON**

"Why do you hide from everyone, Samson?"

It was a simple enough question. Margot had asked it several times over the past few months. She had never once accused him of being a coward, though he was sure she harbored suspicions that he was. She never demanded that he play with her in her nursery, or joined her in the library to read during the day. She knew the limits of his comfort, just as Lena did. But she was naturally very curious about the entire situation. Samson gave her the same answer he always did: "Because I do not like people, and they do not like me."

Every time, Margot would just shrug and turn back to her doll, or to her sketchbook, or to tracing circles in the grime on the attic window, leaving Samson in peace to continue reading.

"You must have very good eyesight, to read in such dim light," she said from the window, turning and putting her hands on her hips.

Samson sighed, marked his place with a scrap of linen, and set the book down. "I do," he replied patiently.

"Why? Is it because your eyes are golden? Greg says that hawks have remarkable eyesight."

Samson's lips twitched into a small grin, but then the thought sank in, and drenched him in uncertainty. What if... what if he did? He had never seen any mention of animal parts in his father's journal. But perhaps he had missed something. "Perhaps I do have a hawk's eyes."

"Of course you don't, silly," Margot replied with a roll of her eyes. She must have picked that gesture up from the stable boys. "You're not a bird, are you?"

Samson shrugged. "What if I replaced my human eyes with bird eyes? Or maybe I transform into a giant hawk on the full moon."

Margot tilted her head at him, eyes narrow. "Do not mock me, sir."

Samson grinned. "I wouldn't dare."

"And you're wrong, you know. About people. I like you. Obviously, Lena likes you. Maman likes you."

"What?" Samson's golden eyes went very wide at the mention of Lena and Margot's mother.

Margot sighed heavily, and spoke as if she was addressing a small, annoying child. "I do wish you would stop acting so stupid, Samson. You made Lena smile again. You made her happy, and she stopped screaming at night. You brought her back to life. Surely you did not think my mother would not notice."

He frowned for a moment. "No, I am not surprised that she noticed. But why would you think she would like me for it? She could not possibly know that I exist." He shot her a dubious glance, wondering if perhaps she had divulged the secret of his presence to her mother.

"Don't look at me like that," she snapped. "I did not tell Maman that you are here. She just has this way of... knowing things."

"Do you not think that she would be... upset by my presence?" To phrase it lightly.

"No, I do not. I heard her talking to Papa the other day, and she said she didn't care who it was, she was just glad to have Lena back."

"Ah, but she did not say she didn't care where I was."

Margot blinked. "In the attic, you mean?" She shrugged. "Why don't you get a house, then?"

Samson sighed. "It's not that easy, _ma petite chou_."

"Why not?" She sat down on a recently dusted trunk and stared up at him, and he marveled at the fact that he did not even flinch when she looked at him. If only he could bring himself to be this comfortable around Lena. "Because I have no money."

"Then make money," Margot said with a shrug. "Papa and Greg do it all the time at the horse races."

Samson couldn't help but chuckle, but he said nothing.

"Samson?" Her voice was suddenly quiet, and unsure, and laced with something else, an emotion that made his hackles rise in sudden, fierce protectiveness.

Fear.

"What is it, child?" he asked in as soothing a voice as possible. His sharp eyes scanned the attic, from corner to corner, watching for danger.

"Do you believe in monsters?"

It took him a few moments to answer. By now he was used to Margot's rapid shifts in conversation, accustomed to her insatiable curiosity and short attention span, but the question itself brought him up short.

"There was a time, not so long ago," he said slowly, "when I considered myself one."

Margot looked up from wringing her hands together and frowned at him. "Well, you're not."

No questions. No hesitation. No uncertainty. At those three simple words, Samson felt a vice loosen from his heart, and he took a deep breath.

"Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes and bowing his head to hide the raw look in his eyes.

"For what?" Margot sounded genuinely confused. Then she sighed impatiently. "You never answered my question. Are monsters real?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Stop avoiding the question and answer me!" she snapped. Samson would have laughed, were it not for the jolt of surprise he felt at seeing Margot lose her temper. She sounded just like Helena.

"Yes," he said softly. "Monsters are real."

She was quiet for a few long moments.

"You haven't noticed anything... strange happening around the house, have you?"

A chill crawled over his skin, raising the hairs along the back of his neck. He lifted his head and fixed his gaze on Margot. "Other than the giant man covered in scars who is currently living in your attic, no." He kept his voice light, to shield her from the sudden awareness that prickled through him. "I would have noticed if anything was amiss in this household. My senses are superior to any human's. Nothing unusual has occurred."

"Greg said there was a monster," Margot whispered. "I was eavesdropping. I know I shouldn't have. But I've never heard _mon frére_ sound so frightened. He's like you. He's not afraid of anything."

Ah, if only she knew that he was terrified of her big sister, a mere waif of a woman with silky blonde hair and soft, sweet lips. How he trembled when her eyelids fluttered in her sleep.

"Why did he say this?"

"Because things keep getting moved around. Books and the like."

Samson suppressed a self-deprecating sigh. He had grown complacent, had become comfortable in this house, with this family, and he had neglected to put everything he used back where he had found it. "Margot, your brother probably just noticed something I accidentally left out of place. He is a very sharp young man."

"But ... what about the monster that chased Lena into the river when she was little?" Margot's brow furrowed, and her eyes flickered to the floor. "I wasn't supposed to hear that, either. Lena and Abby were talking about it a few months ago."

Samson couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He could only sit there, frozen in shock, as an image of a little girl in a bright dress flashed through his mind. The look of silent terror in her eyes.

The cold, hungry grasp of the river as it swallowed her whole.

"She said there was a monster?" he asked in a strangled voice.

_She thought I was a monster?_

"She said it was chasing her. She was playing with Greg in the fields and she felt like something was watching her. Greg saw it first, but it went after Lena. Greg tried to distract it, but it just kept coming for her. She turned and ran into the forest, and fell into the river."

What?

She really had been running from something? But what? Why hadn't he seen it?

"Did she say what it looked like?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"No, she said she couldn't remember. She just remembered that it was big and scary and it smelled... how did she put it?" She screwed up her face, trying to recall Lena's words. "She said it smelled like blood."

His heart leapt into his throat. He felt his palms growing slick with sweat. If this was true...

He should have seen it.

He would have, if he hadn't been half-mad with grief from losing the De Laceys. From being driven away like a criminal. A monster. He searched frantically through his mind, trying to bring the memory into sharper focus. He remembered the virgin snow, the bitter cold wind moaning through a dead, gray forest. The river, a dark, muddy gash marring the pristine winter landscape.

He remembered the flash of color, of a girl in a yellow dress, running swiftly through the snow, silent in her terror.

When she fell into the water, he remembered the surge of adrenaline that put fire into his veins. He was diving in almost immediately after she disappeared beneath the surface. There was not much else that he could recall. Even after he pulled her onto the riverbank, he could only see her white, bloodless face, blue lips, white-gold hair plastered to her forehead. The memory made his heart constrict with pain.

And then, he saw it. A flash of darkness at the edge of his vision, a blur that he ignored because, truly, whom in all the world did he have to fear? He was the monster in these woods. He was the one who was cursed and wretched. He did not jump at shadows, nor did he flinch at the smell of blood.

The sharp, coppery smell of blood.

Yes. The smell was there, in his memory, buried beneath the panic and the adrenaline and the heart-wrenching pain of watching a child struggle for life. The smell of blood. The dark shape at the edge of the trees, watching from within the shadows.

He went deeper, searching through his memories, dragging the old emotions back, trying to bring that blur into focus. Struggling to remember a time that he had tried so hard to forget, a time full of agony and despair, a time when he had wished for death, and cursed himself a coward for being unable to end his own life.

The blur sharpened, flickering in and out of focus. It was a shadow within shadows, but there was something there, something he had seen for the briefest moment, a flash of shape and color that become buried beneath the trauma of watching a helpless little girl struggle for life before his very eyes.

He fought the panic, and the sadness, and he focused on the shadow, and the shape within it.

He saw bone, bleached and sallow. The curve of a jaw, and sharp, jagged teeth. Death.

The skull of a dog?

No. More feral, more frightening. The skull of a wolf.

And beneath it, hidden within the hollow, gaping eye sockets, a flicker of color.

Pale, pale blue.

He felt his blood freeze within him.

Something _had_ been chasing Helena.

"How did she survive?" He didn't try to mask the rawness of his voice, the pain of the loss that he came so close to enduring.

"Lena said that it was an angel who saved her." Margot shrugged. "I think it was just a man. She was very upset when she learned that Jacques had shot him. But Jacques was frightened, and he did not know what else to do."

The pain of the old wound burned in his shoulder. He ignored it. He had long ago forgiven the old man for shooting him.

"Margot, there was no monster. It was just your sister's imagination."

Margot's frown did not lessen at his bald-faced lie. She just stared at him, her brown eyes filled with anxiety and fear. Samson's gaze shifted to her shoulders, and he realized that she was shaking.

With a sigh, he stood, ducking his head to avoid a crossbeam, and crossed over to where she sat. He knelt in front of her and took her tiny, fragile hands into his. Even on his knees, he was taller than her when she stood. But he bowed his head to hers and met her gaze.

"Listen to me, Margot," he said, his voice low and laced with steel. "I will never let you come to harm. I will always protect you. I promise you this. I was born of death and fire, and I will bring Hell upon Earth to any who threaten your safety or your happiness. Do you believe me?"

Margot took a single shaking breath, and nodded. And then she leapt up and threw her arms around Samson's neck, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you, Samson," she whispered. Samson placed a gentle, fond kiss on the top of her head, glad that she could not see the alarm etched on his face in the dim light.

Something _had_ chased Lena into the river on that cloudy spring day, so many years ago. Something real.

Something evil.

* * *

**HELENA**

Early afternoon sunlight streamed through the large windows of the ballroom, illuminating the marble parquet floor and glittering off crystal chandeliers. The effect was quite dazzling, actually. Lena wondered, as she stepped into the room, why she didn't come here more often. It was open and airy and full of light. And Zeus would be absolutely ecstatic to play fetch beneath the rainbow of light splayed across the floor.

In fact, Margot would probably enjoy it as well. Lena wondered where the little hellion was. She hadn't come sprinting past Lena even once today, on the run from her governess or playing hide and seek with Zeus.

Footsteps echoed behind her, and Lena turned to question Greg about their sister's whereabouts, but she stopped short when she saw who was with him.

"Montford!" she said with a smile, coming forward and dropping a quick curtsey to him as he kissed her hand, "What a pleasant surprise!"

Montford sent her a grin and a bow. "Much more pleasant for me, I daresay. Lady Dubois, may I present to you my brother, Mr. Rothwell." Lena turned to his brother, ignoring the fading signs of a black eye on the younger man, and curtseyed as Montford said, "Edison, the delightful Lady Dubois, Gregoire's sister."

Edison Rothwell bowed. "A pleasure to meet you, my lady," he said in a soft voice. "I must beg your pardon for my appearance."

Lena blinked. She flicked a look to Montford, whose face remained still as stone. But she didn't miss the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Your appearance is perfectly satisfactory, sir. Tell me, how have you enjoyed your visit to London thus far?" At Edison's sudden, panicked expression, Montford laughed, clapping his brother on the back.

"I told you we wouldn't get anything past her, Monty." Greg said.

Monty's eyes flickered behind Lena. "How is Miss DeLacey faring, my lady?"

"She is perfectly well, thank you." At the mention of Montford's name at lunch, Abby had fled to her room to change her dress and fix her hair, shouting that she wasn't getting dressed up for anyone in particular, and that if Lena didn't stop laughing Abby would cut all of Lena's hair off in her sleep.

"Excellent," Montford said in a mild voice. "I do hope she is enjoying her visit to England."

Lena almost didn't catch the undertone in his voice. When she did, she snapped her eyes back to Montford and found them slightly narrowed. Clever man. Using her own phrase against her to infer that he realized Abigail wasn't all that she seemed.

"Very much so, my lord," Lena replied in a soft, deadly voice. Then she smiled a bright, very fake smile. "We have all been so busy these past few days, planning the masquerade ball, and she decided to rest a bit before tea. She should be down shortly." She let her smile drop slightly, and added an almost imperceptible edge to her voice. "I do hope you will not hold her at fault if she seems a bit... beat up."

Montford blinked at her. His glance flicked over to his younger brother's fading black eye. And he started laughing. "Not at all, my lady," he said softly, nodding his surrender. His voice held the distinct note of respect that he had, until that moment, only ever used when he addressed Greg. "Not at all."

"Greg!" Lena turned to her brother, who was standing by the pianoforte looking at her like she'd just sprouted a second head. "I didn't know you played."

"I wouldn't call it playing," Montford teased. "But he can keep the time well enough."

"And what are we dancing?"

"Today shall be the waltz, I think," Greg stated, grimacing as he took his seat before the piano. "And you are all under the strictest oath never to utter a word about this to anyone."

"I don't recall swearing an oath," Lena replied mildly.

"The waltz? Again?" Edison looked pained, and his immaculate highborn accent slipped a bit. "I 'ate that one."

"Do stop complaining, Edison, or I shall make you dance it with me again instead of Lady Helena," Montford warned his brother.

"You wouldn't," Edison said with a gasp.

"Try me."

Edison set his jaw and offered Lena his arm. Together they walked out onto the dance floor, and when Edison set his hand on her back and pulled her closer, Lena had to force herself not to laugh. He looked like a martyr going towards his death. "Come now, Mr. Rothwell, try not to look so miserable," she whispered, as Greg struck up the first chords of a waltz. "The waltz is a delightful dance if you put your heart into it."

"I beg your pardon, my lady," he replied instantly, cracking a small, apologetic smile. "I'm just not quite sure any of this is working." He really was quite good, his steps were sure and unfaltering, and his timing was impeccable, but he moved as if he was a marionette on strings, adhering to the perfect form of each step. There was no fluidity in his dancing.

"Any of what?" Lena asked, somewhat distractedly, as she was putting most of her effort into moving gracefully through a waltz with a puppet.

"This miserable attempt to make me into a gentleman," he replied in a flat tone. Lena tilted her head up at him. He looked like a slightly softer version of his brother; age and experience had not yet carved the angles into his face that Montford sported. Still, he was quite handsome, and amenable, and he was the second son of an Earl. He should have had no limits on his education or socialization.

And yet his native dialect seemed to be slightly cockney, and he did not know how to dance the waltz, which any young gentleman would have learned as soon as it came to England and completely scandalized old dowagers across the country.

"You are a gentleman, Mr. Rothwell," Lena said with a shrug, a distinctly French gesture that made Edison's eyebrows rise slightly. "Even if you are unfamiliar with the strictures of our rank, you hold yourself with dignity and you have treated me well, which is less than can be said for many members of the aristocracy."

"Thank you, my lady," Edison replied with an astonished smile. "You are very kind."

"You seem surprised," Lena teased.

"Not at all, just somewhat confused as to why you have such a reputation for coldness amongst the _beau monde_."

Again, Lena shrugged, following him in a twirl that brought them back around to Greg and Monty. "Perhaps I, too, must put on a facade for the town."

Edison stepped back from her, and bowed deeply.

"Well enough, Ed," Monty conceded with a nod, "but you still move like you're marching into battle."

"Perhaps I am," Edison replied under his breath. Lena coughed to cover her laughter and turned to Abby, who was standing silently next to Montford, staring at Lena with a very meaningful expression in her eyes. Her cousin flicked her gaze towards Monty.

Lena grinned.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to show him how it's done, Montford," Lena suggested.

Monty blinked, and smiled. And if Lena had not spent the past several months listening for emotion in the words of her companion, and learning how such emotions were conveyed through tone and pitch, she might have missed the reluctance in his voice. "I would be delighted, my lady." And he began to come towards her, and stopped when she held out her hand.

"I'm afraid I'm quite winded from the first set," she said, and then paused, and brightened. "Perhaps you might dance with Abby? She hasn't been approved by the ladies of Almack's, so she cannot dance the waltz in public."

She saw Monty's eyes narrow very slightly, as if gauging her sincerity, but then his smile widened. He turned on his heel to face Abby.

"Would you care to dance, Miss DeLacey?" he asked in a voice that was just slightly softer, and full of meaning. Lena heard the change. She wondered if anyone else could.

Abby smiled, and instantly she transformed from distant and exotic to welcoming and friendly. It was one of the reasons she was so popular amongst the beau monde. That and the fact that her origin was the greatest mystery of the season. "I would be delighted, Lord Montford." She laid her hand delicately over his arm and together they walked out onto the dance floor.

At the piano, Greg sighed and struck up another waltz. "Matchmaker," he accused Lena, in a voice just soft enough as to carry only to her.

Lena laughed, and leaned back against the wall to watch as Montford and Abby floated across the ballroom, spinning and twirling and moving as if they had been born to dance together. She bit back a sigh as she took in the sight. The ballroom glittered with light, and echoed with the sound of the dance, and radiated with warmth and happiness.

Unexpectedly, Lena felt a pang of jealousy towards her cousin. Abby would never have to watch for Montford in the shadows, or be with him only in the darkness. She could dance with him, in a ballroom, surrounded by hundreds of people. She could walk with him in daylight, and sit with him by the fire.

Lena would never have that.

Tears pricked her eyes, and she cursed them silently and blinked them away.

And then she saw him, a shadow among shadows. The slightest movement drew her eyes up to the second level, a series of linked balconies that overlooked the ballroom and flanked the entire perimeter. The whole top level was darkness, broken only by a few brave shards of light reflected off the crystal chandeliers. And he was there, in the farthest corner from her.

She could feel his eyes on her, now, like a brush of warm air that stirred the fine hairs along the back of her neck.

She was on her feet before she even realized it. She turned to Edison, who was watching the dancing couple with a scrutinizing gaze.

"You must excuse me, Mr. Rothwell. I just remembered..." and that was all she could manage before the doors to the ballroom shut behind her.

She started running.

* * *

**SAMSON**

Samson knew that she had seen him. He felt it in the pit of his stomach. Even from across the ballroom he had seen the way her body went tense and still, like a predator that had just spotted its prey. She had looked right at him, and he had felt her gaze down to his very bones.

The thought brought a grim smile to his lips even as he worked his way methodically towards the attic, dodging servants as he went. Now, he was the hunted one, and he had no doubt that Lena would rip him to shreds if she found him.

He shouldn't have done it; he shouldn't have left the safety of the attic in the middle of the day just to watch her dance. But after he had realized what had chased her into the river when she was a child, he couldn't stay away. He had to see her, to reassure himself that she was safe and whole. Even if it meant having to see her in the arms of Edison Rothwell; at least he knew that she was okay.

Not to say he hadn't entertained a few murderous thoughts about the boy. He couldn't help himself, really. The idea of seeing Lena with another man made him want to punch something. Hard. It went against his most basic instincts. She belonged to him.

He heard her before he saw her, because she was talking under her breath in French as she walked. He ducked quickly into an unused guest room and stepped into the dressing room adjoining it, closing the door quietly behind him. The room was furnished for a female guest, with rows of shelves lining the walls and a vanity desk in the corner. There was a small window as well, flanked by red velvet curtains. He twitched the curtains closed and the room descended into blackness.

In the distance, a door opened, footsteps sounded, and a door shut again. A pause, and then another door opened, footsteps, and a door closed. She was checking all of the rooms in the hallway. Samson stifled the urge to curse aloud and settled for streaming them through his head. If she found him...

A door opened, closer this time. He heard her footsteps, padding over the thick Persian carpet he had crossed on his way to the dressing room. She was just outside of his door. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his breath came hard and fast, and he waited.

Silence stretched through the darkness. She opened the door. Samson winced at the sunlight that poured into the room. There was nothing he could do now, short of knocking her unconscious. The terror that was shooting adrenaline through his veins made the thought almost tempting. But he remained where he stood, frozen in place, as she walked slowly into the room.

She had her eyes closed.

"I'm not going insane," she whispered. "I'm not. I know you're here."

She shut the door behind her, and cast the room back into darkness.

The relief that flooded through his body robbed him of his strength. He almost fell to his knees. There she was, a few feet away after weeks of agonizing distance.

He had tried so hard to stay away from her. To give her time away from him, so that she might get her life back. Her real life, with family and friends and society, instead of the miserable half-life he had imposed upon them both. He had hoped that it might make the separation easier, so that when he truly left, she would be none the wiser, and would forget him in time.

He had fought himself constantly. Fought the urge to touch her, to kiss her, to pull her into his arms and never let her go. He had fought the urge to watch her in the daylight, but he hadn't been able to turn his eyes away from her, from the gentle flush in her cheeks and the laughing sparkle in her eyes. He had tried not to follow her to balls, but he hadn't been able to leave when he saw her dressed like a queen, wrapped in silk and sapphires, with her golden hair and pale skin glimmering in the light of a thousand candles, as she danced and laughed with others.

He had failed. He had utterly and completely failed. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark. He saw her standing by the door, and her eyes were open. A jolt of fear snapped through him. He ignored it. She could not see him, and even when her eyes adjusted she would only see his silhouette.

He stood, and approached her silently. When he got within arm's reach, she sucked in a sharp breath, as if she could sense his presence.

Of course she could. She had always been able to sense when he was near. He didn't know what to say, and he wasn't sure if his voice would work anyway. So he just lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips over her cheek. She didn't recoil, like he expected. But then, she had never tried to get away from him, or flinched at his moods or his touch. Even when he was angry, even when he had threatened her life during their first few meetings, she had never been afraid of him.

He had been hopelessly lost for his entire life. And then he had met Helena. She had spoken with him, she had laughed with him and teased him. She had scolded him and cursed him when he was being stubborn. She had begged him.

She had kissed him.

She had made him whole.

She reached up and took his hand in hers, and her soft fingertips traced the scar on his palm, and then she smiled in the darkness, and flew into his arms.

Nothing had ever felt so wonderful. Nothing. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him so tightly he couldn't breathe. He held her close, and his entire body sang with joy at her touch. Every inch of him felt electrified, and tiny sparks glittered on his skin in the darkness.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't need words.


	17. Tonight

_Hi, everyone! Thank you for being patient with me and this story. I hope you enjoy the latest chapter. If you get a chance, let me know what you think! And, as always, a HUGE thank you to my wonderful Beta, ColeandPhoebeForever. Thank you so much, Kim!_

* * *

**HELENA**

At first she thought she was dreaming. That she had fallen asleep earlier in the afternoon and had imagined the ballroom, the waltz, the chase, and her mad search of every room in the eastern wing of the house. That she had dreamt that she smelled leather and wood smoke and that hint of lavender, and that she was hallucinating when his fingers caressed her cheek in the darkness.

Then she was in his arms, and she could feel the heat radiating from his body, and feel the silk of his hair tangling in her fingers. He was the only man in the world, the only thing that mattered. He was hard muscle and soft skin beneath her fingertips, desire and love and passion and that deep, rumbling voice that made her soul cry out with joy. He held her tightly to him, pressing her against the firm muscles in his chest. Her skin tingled and her limbs were languid with pleasure. His hands seemed to burn through the fabric of her dress as he touched her. She felt alive, she felt incandescent.

She lifted herself up on her toes and pressed her lips to his, and couldn't stop the soft moan that escaped her as his tongue slid over hers like soft, hot velvet. He tasted like heat and passion. She nipped his bottom lip, very gently, and he growled deep in his throat, and his arms tightened even further around her. "You have driven me mad," he murmured into her lips, sliding his hands down her back, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

"It's no less than you deserve," she replied as she trailed delicate kisses across his jaw and neck. She paused a moment, and then grazed her teeth over the soft, sensitive skin beneath his ear.

"Vixen!" he gasped. His entire body shuddered, and he grabbed her shoulders as if to pull her away. She felt an instant flash of panic at the thought of being separated from him, and tightened her arms around his neck and caught his earlobe between her teeth, nibbling gently. His arms fell limply away and he sank to his knees with a deep, tormented moan. On his knees he was nearly as tall as she was while she stood. "Please, Helena," he begged, "stop teasing me and let me speak."

"I'd rather not," she replied. She trailed her tongue over his bottom lip, and his hands grasped her hips and pulled her closer, his fingers digging almost painfully into her flesh. She felt him tense, preparing to push her away, and she went instantly still. "Wait!" she said frantically. "I'll stop!"

Was that a smile on his face? She couldn't see it, but she could feel it. She muttered a curse at him, and he chuckled.

"I have not had a moment's peace since I met you," he said, releasing his grip on her waist and smoothing his hands over her hips. She could hear the happiness in his voice. "You take pleasure in tormenting me, you demand nothing less than my best, and you haunt me at all times."

"Now, to be fair, if you're going to bring up haunting..." she began, and he laughed. The sound of his laughter made her smile.

"I couldn't help myself," he said, shrugging his massive shoulders. "I cannot stay away from you."

Lena opened her mouth to speak again, but he slid his large hands down to cup her backside, and she gasped as heat and pleasure curled through her body, silencing her in an instant. God, how she burned for him. When he slid his hands back up to her waist, she made a soft whimpering noise in protest, and pressed her body closer to his, reveling in the heat and strength that surrounded her.

"I am not finished," he growled through clenched teeth, unable to hide the desire in his voice. "I have tried so hard to stay away from you. I cannot. I will no longer try." At this, Lena sucked in a breath and let it out as a shaky laugh, full of tentative joy. What if he changed his mind? What if he got tired of her and left? Fear nipped at the heels of her happiness, weighing her down. "I will stay with you, in whatever capacity I can. But first, you have to know what I am."

Lena waited. But he said nothing. He seemed paralyzed, as if he couldn't bring himself to form the words he wanted to say.

So she bent her head and kissed him softly, felt her lips tingle against his.

"I love you," she said. "That is all that matters."

"It's not that simple," he whispered, his voice now heavy with misery. "You may change your mind once you know, and I..." he took a deep breath, and his grip tightened on her hips. "I don't know if I could survive without you." He sighed. "I am a coward, Helena."

"I do not think you are," she replied with a thoughtful frown. She hesitated a moment, as a thought hit her, and instinctively she tightened her grip on him. "Would... Would it be easier if you waited until tonight to tell me?"

That way, at least, he would be in familiar territory, and he wouldn't have to fear her eyes. Her idea wasn't completely altruistic, however; she knew that tonight when he came to her, she would already be in bed, and it would be that much easier to get him to join her.

He paused, and then chuckled softly, and the sound reverberated in her chest. "How well you know me," he murmured, brushing his lips over her shoulder in a feathery kiss. She shivered with pleasure. "Tonight, then," he confirmed, and he stood in a rush of motion.

"No!" she yelped. Panic flooded her again. She latched her arms around his neck and pressed her face against his chest, willing the sun to fall out of the sky that instant and bring night to them. She could hear his heartbeat, strong and loud, and beneath that, the slow rhythm of his breathing. She closed her eyes and memorized the sound of it.

He chuckled humorlessly. "I don't like it any more than you do," he said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "but your cousin is looking for you, and she has enlisted Zeus in the search. It won't be long before we are discovered."

The idea of being discovered didn't bother her at all, but she did not voice that opinion aloud. He wouldn't have appreciated the thought. Slowly, she disentangled herself from him, and felt the loss of his touch like a bucket of ice water tossed over her head. She shivered, and from across the room, she heard him sigh.

"Go," he pleaded.

Still she hesitated. "What if you change your mind?"

"I won't change my mind, _ma cherie_," he said. There was a smile in his voice.

"Are you sure?"

"I give you my word," he replied. "Nothing will keep me away from you tonight."

* * *

**ABIGAIL**

Abigail cursed softly as she scanned yet another empty room. Beside her, Zeus whined, and tilted his big head to gaze up at her with soft brown eyes. His eyelids drooped slightly, giving him the appearance of constant hopefulness.

"It's not your fault, little bear," she soothed him in French, her favorite language for when she was worried or distressed. Zeus's tail whumped softly on the carpet. He turned and padded out of the room and down the hallway.

She followed, mostly because she had no idea where to look for Lena. She had simply disappeared from the ballroom, in the middle of Abby's waltz with Montford. The thought brought a flush of heat to her cheeks. She had never before met a man outside of her family whose intelligence could rival that of her father. He was clever, highly amusing, and kind. And when they had waltzed together, he had looked at her with such intensity it had made her shiver.

Zeus barked at a door at the end of the hallway, then glanced over at her and barked again.

"Very well, then, but if it's a rat you're after, I'm going to scream right in your ear." She opened the door and Zeus rushed passed her, bumping her to the side in his haste.

"Hello, darling," Lena said with a soft laugh. Abby sighed in relief and walked into the room. Zeus had his paws up on Lena's lap as she sat on the bench by the window on the far wall. Abby crossed her arms and frowned at her cousin.

"Are you feeling well, Lena?" she asked in a carefully neutral voice. Her cousin smiled, and Abby did not miss the slight flush in her cheeks and the way her eyes sparkled.

"Perfectly well," Lena replied simply. "I'm sorry that I ran out like that."

At the look of longing that flashed through Lena's eyes, Abby felt her stomach flip. She sank down onto the bench beside Lena and took her hands.

"Lena..." she hesitated. What if her suspicions were true? Her heart constricted. "Is it Montford?"

Lena blinked at her. "Is what Montford?"

"Is that why you ran from the ballroom?"

Lena went slightly pale, and her lips curled into a small frown. Abby felt her palms starting to grow damp within her gloves. She squeezed Lena's hands and leaned forward.

"Abby, I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about," she said.

Abby's heart was fluttering in her chest. She took a deep breath, and steeled herself for whatever unpleasantness may follow.

"Were you upset because Montford and I were dancing?" she demanded.

Lena's frown deepened. "Of course not; you danced beautifully with Montford."

"That's not what I meant," Abby said with a groan. "Lena, is Montford the one you're in love with?" Lena's face went completely blank for a moment, and Abby felt like her heart had climbed up into her throat. She squeezed Lena's hands again. "It's perfectly fine if you are. The two of you would make such a lovely match."

"No!" Lena's vehemence startled her. "God in Heaven, no! I am not in love with Montford!"

The relief that swept through Abby was so strong it made her dizzy. She was glad she wasn't standing, or she might have actually swooned. She sent a silent, fervent thanks heavenward and smiled.

Lena started laughing. From across the room, Zeus barked happily in response.

"What?" Abby demanded, smiling despite herself. Until this summer, Lena hadn't laughed for many years, and the joy was contagious. She reached out and playfully shoved Lena's shoulder. "Stop laughing at me, I was worried!"

"Sorry, sorry," Lena said through giggles. "I can't help it, the look on your face was just..." and she dissolved into laughter again.

Abby sighed. "Well if you're not in love with Montford, then I am."

Lena's arms were around her in an instant, hugging her tight. "I'm happy for you," she said with a grin. "He is a good man."

Zeus barked again. Both women turned their heads to see him standing in front of the door to what Abby supposed was a dressing room.

"What do you want, little bear?" She demanded playfully, standing up to walk over to Zeus. "There's nothing in there."

"Quite right," Lena said quickly, moving to Abby's side. She linked her arm through Abby's and started to pull her towards the hallway. "I've had enough of this dusty room, I need some fresh air. Zeus, _viens_."

With a whine, Zeus followed them out of the room, padding silently at Lena's side.

"Why were you hiding in a guest room, Lena?" Abby wondered, suddenly suspicious.

"I was just thinking. I wanted some time to myself."

"You could have gone to your room."

Lena shrugged. "I didn't feel like it."

Abby narrowed her eyes, judging whether or not to pursue the topic, but the set of Lena's shoulders told her she probably wouldn't get any information from her, so she just sighed.

"So if you weren't upset about my dancing with Montford, why did you disappear like that? Mr. Rothwell said you looked like you had seen a ghost."

Lena shot her a frown. "I had a sudden thought that made me temporarily lose my composure, Abigail. Please, just leave it be."

Abby nodded, tucking away her thoughts to bring up later and mull over. Lena had never kept secrets from her, nor had she ever been so evasive. "As you wish," she said, trying not to sound too hurt.

Lena sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm just..." she lifted her hands to her head and rubbed her temples. Then she turned to Abby in a rush. "Might we go for a walk in Hyde Park, Abby? I feel like I'm going to go mad if I stay in this house a moment longer."

Abby blinked up at her cousin in mild surprise. "Certainly. Shall I fetch Greg and Montford to accompany us?"

Lena frowned. "I would rather they didn't. I'm sorry, I know you want to spend time with Montford, I just..."

"It's fine, Lena," Abby said in a soothing voice, trying to stamp down the sudden rush of concern for her cousin. She squeezed Lena's hand gently. "You go find one of the maids to accompany us and I'll have a carriage brought around."

Lena nodded, and gave her a small smile. Then she turned and walked away, and Zeus padded along behind her like a big, silent shadow.

Abby turned to make her way towards the stables, and froze in her tracks when she found herself face to face with Margot, standing at the bottom of the stairwell that led to the attic.

"What are you doing here?" they both asked simultaneously. Abby crossed her arms and frowned.

Margot did the same.

"That's not going to work, Gogo," she warned her cousin. "What were you doing in the attic?"

"I was hiding from Miss Buckham," Margot said instantly, setting her shoulders in what Abby recognized as a battle stance. Abby sighed. Sarah Buckham, Margot's governess, was probably hysterical by now, searching for her lost charge.

"If you were really hiding from her, it would be the last thing you would admit to," Abby replied.

Margot's scowl faltered, but it returned a heartbeat later, in full force. "Well, it's true, I _am_ hiding from her."

_But what else are you doing?_

"Margot," Abby said with a sigh, "I do not have time to get the truth out of you now, but rest assured that I will." She put her hands on her cousin's shoulders and steered her gently towards the nursery. "Go. If you return on your own accord, Miss Buckham might be less inclined to tell your mother that you escaped."

"She won't tell," Margot muttered. "She doesn't even look for me."

Abby blinked. "Of course she does."

Margot shook her head and started back towards the nursery, mumbling to herself as she went.

Abby stared after her with a frown, shook her head and started back towards the main area of the house. Her thoughts were troubled, and her shoulderblades itched, as if someone watched her from the shadows. She sighed, and pushed away the sense of dread that pressed down on her like a heavy shroud; she was just concerned about Lena, that's all.

A refreshing afternoon walk would do them both good.

* * *

**HELENA**

Hyde Park was always busy in the morning, when the gentry came to see and be seen before making their rounds of friendly visits, light luncheons and delicate teas. It was always busy in the evenings, as well, when they came to see and be seen before they dispersed to attend lavish dinner parties, elegant operas and overcrowded ballrooms.

But when Lena and Abby stepped out of the carriage in the early afternoon, after the morning rush and just before the evening parade, the park was quiet and calm. By the lake, a handful of nannies watched over their charges and exchanged idle gossip, and several gentlemen reclined in the shade of the pavilion with glasses of wine. Otherwise, this part of Hyde Park was blessedly empty.

Emily, Abby's maid, followed a few steps behind them as Lena and Abby made their way down one of the wooded paths that snaked around the lake. In the shade, the air was cool and damp, a subtle sign that winter was never very far away, especially now that the Season was nearing its end.

For a while, neither of them spoke, they just walked, arms linked together, as they had all their lives. Lena knew Abby was worried, and curious, and that despite her worry she would never pressure Lena to speak. But she didn't have to. Lena could feel the words building up in her throat, aching to be said. She had never kept secrets from Abby until this year. Until she had met the man she had fallen in love with, whose face she had never seen.

It sounded ridiculous. It sounded mad.

But it had to be said. She knew it had to be said. Just as she'd known that if she tried to stay in her house with him without being able to be near him, she would have gone insane. "I am in love."

Abby just smiled. "I know."

Lena waited for the inevitable questions. Who is he? What's his name? But Abby did not ask.

"How long have you known?"

Abby shrugged. "Since January. Your letters started becoming more... I don't know... more joyful. Lighter." She squeezed Lena's hand. "Happier."

Lena sighed. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"Don't be," Abby said instantly. "I know you had good reason."

Lena chuckled. "Good reason? The only reason I didn't tell you was because you would have thought I had gone mad."

"Lena, you are the most reasonable and logical person I have ever known," Abby said with an unladylike roll of her eyes. "When we were children, you sat down with me and actually tried to figure out who the Forest Spirit was."

Lena grinned, joy alighting within her as the memory rose up in her mind. "I remember that. How old were we? Eight?" That was the same year she had nearly drowned and her night terrors had begun, when her father had gone to Geneva and brought Abby back to stay with Lena for the summer. Abby had been full of delightful and distracting tales of the Forest Spirit who had helped the DeLaceys through the harsh, bitter winter.

"Hmm. Seven or eight," Abby mused. "I remember, you sat me down very formally over your little tea set and calmly listed out the reasons why there were no such things as spirits, and how it must have just been a very strong, very determined, and very secretive man." She narrowed her eyes at Lena. "While at the very same time you insisted that you were saved from the river by an angel."

"I was eight," Lena replied with a shrug. "He pulled me out of the rapids. He must have been incredibly powerful to have..."

A long, heavy pause settled between them, filled only by the distant chirping of birds and the soft buzz of crickets.

Together they said, "Do you think perhaps...?" and they both laughed.

"It's not possible," Lena said with a shake of her head. "They couldn't be the same man."

"But you said your angel had long black hair," Abby said excitedly, "and so did the Forest Spirit. He spoke to me once, you know."

Lena grinned. "Yes, I know, I've heard the story a thousand times."

"He was so tall, taller than any man I've ever met," Abby said, a wistful note in her voice.

"You were a child, all adults are tall to a child," Lena stated.

"Oh, don't be stubborn," Abby teased. "Even a child can tell when an adult is especially tall."

"Yes, well, so he was tall," Lena replied with an indignant sniff. "That doesn't mean he wasn't human."

"But his eyes, Lena! They were yellow! And they _glowed_."

"Of course they did, dear," Lena said in a soothing, semi-mocking tone. Sometimes it was fun to agitate Abby, she could curse in several different languages, and Lena always learned a new epithet.

But something was nagging her, a thought or memory just out of her reach. She tried to recall it, letting the smile fall from her face as she stared off into the trees. It was something Abby had said, a long, long time ago.

_Something about scars._

"Lena?" Abby said with sudden concern, squeezing Lena's arm.

"Sorry," Lena replied absently, "I was just thinking about your Forest Spirit. Didn't you once say that he had..."

"Lena!" Abby interrupted in a hushed, frantic voice. "Who are those men?"

Lena blinked and turned her gaze forward, where two large men stood blocking the path twenty feet away. Both had identical grins on their faces, and a hungry look in their eyes. Abby and Lena stopped in their tracks, staring at the men in silence.

"On three," Lena whispered, her voice so soft it was barely audible above the gentle breeze. She tapped Abby's arm with one finger.

_One_.

A heartbeat passed, and the men made no move to approach them. She tapped Abby's arm again.

_Two_.

From behind them came a voice that made Lena's skin crawl.

"If you run, she dies."

Ice slithered through her veins, tensing her muscles and curling her hands into fists. She released Abby's arm and turned around. It felt like the entire world had frozen, and had shrunk to the size of a small room, in which she now stood, facing Jacob, Viscount Stanford.

_So he did not leave the country after all_.

He looked like he'd just left his club, still half drunk and dead tired. There were dark circles beneath his eyes; his face was pale and drawn. His cravat was untied, and his shirt was wrinkled and stained. And he was holding a gun to Emily's head.

"We will not run," Lena said in a soft, soothing voice. Inside, her thoughts were wild and panicked, screaming through her head and demanding that she do something, say something, _anything_... "Please, my lord," she said gently, "let her go."

Stanford blinked at her, as if this wasn't the response he had expected. He looked... confused. His eyes darted behind them, and widened slightly. Lena fought the sudden, instinctive urge to spin back around, and instead she dug her heels into the gravel path and squeezed her hands more tightly into fists.

"Please, Jacob," she said, "please let Emily go. We cannot outrun a bullet."

Stanford's eyes darted from Emily back to Lena, and he nodded jerkily. He released her arm and stepped away from her, and she sank down to the ground with a sob. Lena felt the vice around her heart loosen a tiny bit in relief.

"Emily," Lena began to speak, but the maid's hysterical crying cut her off. "Emily, look at me," Lena snapped. Emily's eyes popped open and her sobs quieted. Lena had never spoken to her in that tone. "I would like you to return to the house, now," Lena said in a slow, deliberate voice. "Do you understand?"

Emily blinked, sniffled, and nodded once. She stood up slowly. Lena could see her trembling, and worried for a moment that Emily might faint, but then, bless the girl, she turned on her heel, grabbed her skirt with both hands, lifted it above her knees and took off running, disappearing down the path in a matter of seconds.

Lena let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Then she looked at Stanford.

"Thank you," she said simply.

"Think nothing of it," came another voice from behind them. As one, Lena and Abby turned to find a new stranger standing between the two large bodyguards, watching them with a wide, satisfied smile on his face. He was handsome, at first glance, with his curling blond hair and tanned skin. His suit was tailored perfectly, and an emerald glittered in the folds of his cravat. But there was something about his eyes, and that smile, that made a shiver crawl down Lena's spine. There was something not quite right about this man.

The stranger shrugged. "I was going to let her go anyway."

"Who are you?" Abby demanded angrily. Lena grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. _Be quiet, Abby!_

"My name is Jack," he replied, sweeping them an elegant bow. "This is Alfred," he pointed to the large man to his left, with long red-brown hair, "and this is Henry," he pointed to the man on his right, with the short black hair, "and you are already acquainted with Lord Stanford, of course."

Stanford moved around to stand next to Henry. "I have done my part," he said, his voice hoarse and slightly slurred. "Give me my money."

"Quite right, my good man. You have done your part." The man named Jack's smile didn't waver a moment. In one fluid motion, he pulled a pistol from the pocket of his coat, aimed it straight at Stanford's heart, and pulled the trigger. Stanford dropped to the ground, dead.

Lena had dreamed of this moment many times before, of seeing the bastard lying lifeless on the ground before her. In the past, the picture had filled her with bitter triumph, and it had helped soothe the pain of his betrayal and abandonment.

But now, staring down at the man who had caused her such pain and sadness, she felt only pity. He had never been a good man.

And now he never would be.

Abby, who had seen her share of suffering and pain in the world, did not flinch either.

The man named Jack looked up at them, and though that eerie smile did not falter, his eyebrows raised just slightly. Was he surprised at their lack of reaction? Had he expected them to faint?

"Very well, my dear ladies. Follow me, if you please. Alfred, plant the instructions on the body."

"You're leaving instructions?" Abby asked in a carefully toneless voice. Lena jabbed her in the ribs. _Be quiet!_

Jack nodded, smile still in place. "Yes, of course," he said cheerfully. "What's the point of baiting a trap if your prey doesn't even know where to find it?"


	18. Gone

_Author's Note: Yay update! Sorry this chapter is so short. I'm working slowly but surely towards the climax of the story and I want to give myself a buffer in case I run into any roadblocks. Plus, the end of this chapter was a great stopping point because it's one of those Soap Opera-esque GASP! kind of moments. Does that make any sense? I've had way too much caffeine today._

_This should be the beta'd version. Sorry about all the confusion, Kim! Thank you for being awesome!_

_Also, a quick shoutout to NataCara for messaging me to remind me that people do actually read my stories and kind of like them. That was nice to hear. :)_

_I've been rereading some of the reviews I've gotten on this story, and I seriously cannot thank you guys enough for your support. You're all just so freaking awesome. Thank you._

* * *

**GREGOIRE**

The house was completely quiet as the afternoon shadows lengthened across the library floor. Gregoire was struck by the oddness of the silence as he leaned back from his desk, taking a much-needed break from the reports he had been poring over since luncheon. He let out a heavy sigh. He should be savoring this moment, as such peacefulness came rarely in this house, but he couldn't. A chill slithered up his spine. He didn't like this silence; it reminded him of the tense lull that always preceded a storm.

He stood, and placed his hands on his desk very lightly, tapping his fingers to test his ears.

He wasn't deaf.

It was just too quiet.

Somewhere in the house, Zeus started barking. Greg sighed with relief and grinned, chastising himself for such unnecessary anxiety, but before he could ring the bell to have a servant bring the beast some food, he hesitated.

There was something different about that bark. Concern prickled like tiny, cold fingers down his spine. Something about the sound seemed... panicked.

Greg jumped to his feet, crossed the library and stepped out into the hallway. He glanced in both directions, hesitated as he tried to gauge where Zeus was, and set off towards the main hall.

He found Lena's mastiff _en pointe_ with his nose at the front door, barking deeply, and angrily, and with a high-pitched whine that made the hairs on the back of Greg's neck stand on end.

Something was wrong.

He moved forward, calling Zeus's name softly, hoping to get hold of his collar in case he decided to attack someone. Zeus paid no heed. He kept barking, his eyes trained on the doorknob with unwavering intent.

When someone banged hard on the door, Greg was so startled he actually jumped back a step. Zeus stopped barking instantly, and the hall descended into utter silence. Greg could hear faint voices coming from upstairs, which did not surprise him, for he was sure he wasn't the only one who'd heard the cacophony Zeus had been making.

Then he heard something else. Something that did surprise him, and that sent a vicious, terrifying chill through him.

The sound of a woman crying.

Without a second thought, he flung the front door open, and Emily, one of the upstairs maids, fell into his arms. He grabbed on to her to keep her from sinking to the floor. She was trembling violently, and sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

For one paralyzing moment, Greg did not know what to do. He was a secret agent of the crown; he had been trained extensively to handle unusual situations, to diffuse anger and avoid suspicion, to fight with countless types of weapons, and to resist torture to the death.

But for that one moment, he was utterly confounded. Too many thoughts were trying to take shape and gain dominance in his head at once. Too many emotions threatening to push their way to the surface. He fought them, forcing them down and away so that he could focus.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded in a sharp, firm voice.

The maid, Emily, managed to shake her head once.

"Were you followed?"

Her eyes widened up at him in confusion. Of course she didn't know. He bit back a growl of frustration.

_Think simple. One thing at a time._

_Emily._

_Emily is Abby's maid._

_She went with them to Hyde Park._

_She's crying._

_Abby and Lena aren't with her._

"Where is Helena?" he whispered. Emily's sobs grew harder, and she clutched at him tightly, burying her head in his chest. "Where is Abigail?"

"Gone," Emily cried, her words muffled by his coat, "they've been taken!"

"Gregoire!" His father's voice boomed through the main hall, commanding and distinct. Greg snapped his head up, and focused on his father. "_Qu'est-ce qui se passé_?"

What has happened?

"_Je ne sais pas_," Greg replied instantly. "_Zeus a été aboyer __à__ la porte d'entrée quand Emily est arrivé_."

"_En anglais, s'il te plaît_," Greg's mother, Regina, chided in a calm voice as she walked into the foyer. She had a way of calming a situation, merely by being present, that soothed Greg's nerves immensely.

Greg nodded. "I don't know what happened," he repeated in English. "Zeus was barking at the door, I came to see what he wanted, and Emily was on the doorstep crying." He gestured to the maid, who was clinging to him like a terrified kitten. "Relax, my dear," he said to her in a quiet voice. "You are safe now."

"What's happened? What's going on?" Margot shouted, skidding to a halt as she rounded a corner and found her parents, brother, and a group of wide-eyed servants staring at her. "Zeus was barking strangely," she said defensively.

Regina opened her arms and Margot ran into them instantly.

"We don't know yet, _ma cherie_," she said in a gentle voice, "but it is important that you remain calm, _d'accord_?" When Margot nodded, Regina lifted her gaze and focused her pale eyes on her son. "Bring Emily into the Blue Parlor and have some tea sent up," she commanded. "You may join us after you have spoken with your father."

Greg nodded, once, and just like that his world fell back into place. His mother had always run her household with a firm, even hand, and following her orders at home came as naturally to him as following the orders of his commanding officer in the field. He put one arm around Emily's shoulders and followed his mother and sister, guiding the maid towards the Blue Parlor, the less formal, more comforting greeting room that was decorated in soothing, pastel shades of blue.

When he reached the sofa, Emily's arms turned into iron vices, and he almost had to pry her off. He murmured some comforting words to her and as soon as was humanly possible, he sped out of the parlor and back to the main hall. His father was waiting, with Zeus sitting patiently by his side.

"I have sent Eleanor to bring tea to your mother," his father said in French. "She will be able to get more information from the maid alone; our presence would just frighten her."

Greg nodded. He followed his father into the library, where the Vicomte de Millau kept a small escritoire for emergency purposes, on the opposite side of the room from his son's large mahogany desk. Greg sat in one of the armchairs near the fireplace as his father unlocked a drawer in the escritoire, pulled out a thick stack of paper, of varying degrees of age and wear, and sat it on the table next to Greg.

"These are the letters from Viscount Stanford that I have received over the past two years," Philippe stated, still speaking in French to avoid having the conversation overheard by curious servants. "He has threatened my life and the life of your sister on multiple occasions. It is very likely that he is responsible, at least in part, for whatever has happened."

Greg stared at the pile of letters. It had to be at least two inches thick. He couldn't control the sudden surge of dread that rose up from deep within him as his father's words registered. Something horrible had happened to his sister and cousin. Even now, they could be dead.

_No_. His mind fought for reason amidst the panic racing through his blood.

They had been kidnapped. They wouldn't be killed outright unless the Dubois family failed to meet the demands of their kidnappers.

Someone held his sister and cousin hostage.

And it was very likely that Viscount Stanford had something to do with it.

Two years ago, Stanford had fled the country when he was supposed to be taking care of Helena. The beau monde thought that Lena had called off the engagement because she was afraid of losing him to the war, as she stood to lose her father and brother. Gregoire had been told that it was, in fact, Stanford who had abandoned Lena. He had seen her heartbreak firsthand when he had returned home from the war.

Apparently that wasn't the entire story.

"Did you..."

"Exile him to America?" his father finished, raising one eyebrow. "No. He made that decision himself. I just made sure he stayed there." He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something unpleasant. "I told you that he abandoned Helena, son. What I did not tell you is that he abandoned her because of a rumor that you and I had been stripped of our titles, lands and fortune and had been executed in France. He abandoned her because he thought she was penniless and common." His father's sharp, angular jaw clenched tightly, and pain and fury glittered in his eyes. "And because, at the time, she was with child."

* * *

_Author's Note: Holy cliffhanger, Batman! Yeah. I totally did that to you. Sorry. I really do love you guys. Review if you want to let me know what you think. Or if you just want to curse at me._


	19. Animal

_Author's Note: You, my dear readers, are awesome, wonderful, and amazing. Especially those of you who have left reviews. They make my heart happy, and a lot of them are more eloquently worded than anything I could ever write. Thank you so much._

_My beta, Kim, is also awesome, wonderful, and amazing._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**MARGOT**

Margot had never seen her mother so calm, not in her entire life. And sitting next to her on the sofa was absolute torture, because it felt like Margot's heart was about to jump out of her throat, and she had to clasp her hands tightly in her lap to keep them from trembling. How could her mother be so serene? It was impossible! She obviously didn't understand what was going on.

They sat like that for what seemed like hours, with Emily shivering under a blanket across from them, in complete and utter silence. The other servants, even Margot's governess, had been sent back to their rooms, and Gregoire and Papa had disappeared entirely.

Finally, tea arrived, served by the Housekeeper, Eleanor. Margot glanced at the tiny sandwiches and petite-fours arrayed on the platter and her stomach turned at the thought of eating sweets while Lena and Abby were...

Better not think about it. Better to wait until she could get away from the adults and go find Samson. He would know what to do.

He would get them back safely.

After Eleanor served them tea, she discreetly slipped out of the room, and silence once again descended over the parlor.

"Emily, are you feeling any better?" Regina asked in a kind, gentle voice. Margot glanced up at her mother, wondering at the calmness in her tone.

"Yes, my lady," Emily whispered.

"Are you sure you are unharmed?"

"Yes, my lady."

"You have done an excellent job, Emily. Are you aware of that?"

Emily blinked, and as the words sank in, her trembling began to subside. Margot watched the exchange, fascinated.

"Do you mean it?" Emily whispered, her voice high and thin.

"I do, my dear," Regina replied solemnly. "You have shown great courage and fortitude today, and for that you will be rewarded."

The tense, rigid set of Emily's shoulders loosened. "I was just doing my job, my lady."

"Nevertheless," Regina replied with a nod. "Gerald is very proud of you."

Margot wondered for a moment why her mother was mentioning their butler, but then she saw how Emily's eyes lit up, and her back straightened with pride.

She thought perhaps that, to the maids, making the butler proud was akin to Margot making Papa or Samson proud.

Suddenly, she realized what was going on. Her mother was trying to make Emily feel relaxed, to make her stop crying and shaking. And, apparently, her mother was very good at that.

"Now, can you tell me what happened, Emily?" Regina asked with an encouraging smile.

Emily nodded slowly. "We took the carriage to Hyde Park around three of the clock, my lady, just myself and Miss DeLacey and Lady Helena. There weren't many people there at that time, so the ladies decided to walk through the trees a bit, on the path. It was quiet, and a bit too isolated for my tastes, but it was what the ladies wished." She hesitated, and closed her eyes for a moment, and when she spoke again it was in present tense, as if she was reliving the moment in her mind. "We walk some ten or fifteen minutes when I see two men appear out of nowhere in front of us. I'm about to say something when someone grabs me, puts his hand over me mouth, and puts a gun to me head." Her voice trembled. Margot felt herself trembling, too. Panic was rising, slow and unstoppable inside her. "He says to the ladies, 'If you move, she dies,' and I realize he's talking about me. And then Lady Helena says something to him - I don't remember what - and after a moment, he lets me go. And Lady Helena looks me right in the eye and tells me to go home, and so I did. I turned and ran fast as I could." She looked up and met Regina's eyes, and her lower lip trembled as she choked on a sob. "I'm so sorry, my lady. I know I shouldn't have left them like that. I know it."

"Nonsense, Emily," Margot's mother said instantly, the firm, confident tone in her voice cutting through the room and silencing Emily's tears. "You did exactly what you should have done, and no one thinks any differently."

Margot nodded to emphasize her mother's words, and Emily sent her a small smile.

"Emily, did you recognize any of the men?" Regina asked.

"Only one, my lady," Emily replied instantly, eyes wide. "The man who put the gun to my head. It was Viscount Stanford."

Margot made the mistake of looking up at her mother just in time to see Regina's mask slip. The color drained from Regina's face, her shoulders dropped just slightly, and the air rushed from her lungs, as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. She sucked in one trembling breath, and then, just as quickly, the façade returned, Regina straightened, and she nodded.

Panic surged inside Margot. She'd known her mother was faking it, that she was pretending not to be upset to keep Emily calm and collected. But she had never seen her mother break character in front of someone who wasn't family. Not even two years ago, when Lena had been so very sick, and a heavy, unspoken sadness had haunted the Dubois family for months on end. Even then, Regina had put on that mask whenever someone visited, or when she was required to attend balls or dinner parties, and it had never slipped.

A heartbeat later, an enormous crash echoed throughout the house. The teacups rattled in their saucers, and all three of them jumped, and looked around with wide eyes.

"Was that thunder?" Emily whispered.

"I do not think so," Regina replied slowly.

Margot was on her feet and heading for the door before she realized it.

"Gogo? _Tu restes dans la maison, tu comprends_?" Her mother's stern command faded to nothing as she ran down the hallway. _Stay in the house, understand?_

"_Oui, Maman_," she said to herself, sliding around a corner, ignoring the stitch in her side as she leapt up the stairs to the second floor. She made her way quickly to the back of the house, where the entrance to the attic was, and skidded to a halt at the foot of the attic stairs.

Something made her pause, even in her panic, and she couldn't figure out what. Nor could she shake the feeling. She frowned and crept up the stairs, then slowly, carefully opened the attic door, stepped inside, and waited for her eyes to adjust.

She saw him, a shadow within shadows, pacing the width of the attic in almost complete silence. The air around him seemed to sparkle and flash, as if he was filled with a lightning storm, a mass of scorching power barely contained within his body. The only sound was the soft swish of his linen shirt and the muted tap of leather boots.

Something made her want to turn and run. She wasn't sure what it was, or why. She had no reason to fear Samson. Nevertheless, the urge to flee did not lessen.

She whispered his name, and his entire body snapped to attention, whipping around to face her.

When his bright, golden eyes landed on her, the sheer fury in them froze her in her tracks. In that moment, he was not Samson. He was not her friend. He was not her guardian.

He was not even a man.

For that one brief, heart-stopping moment, he was pure animal, driven by rage and pain and despair. Her instincts recognized the look of a caged predator, and kept her completely still. If he attacked her, she would not stand a chance, and she knew it.

A split second after the stillness came the fear. Her heart started pounding, and she sucked in a huge breath to scream.

The look on his face, and in his eyes, shifted from fury to terror to abject misery in an instant. He stumbled back, away from her, as if she was the predator, not he.

And, just like that, she understood.

She saw his entire life mirrored in those three emotions. Anger that he could not control, fear of the consequences of that anger, and sadness - so much sadness - for the loss he had caused and endured.

Her fear dissipated. She snapped her mouth shut and the scream died away in her throat. She lifted her hands, palms out, in the age-old gesture of peace. Her heart tightened in her chest, crying out in sympathy for the pain she saw in him.

"Samson, it's alright," she said, trying her best to mimic her mother's soothing tone.

Samson blinked, and then he closed his eyes and lowered his head. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I did not mean to frighten you."

"Don't be silly," she said with a deliberately arrogant sniff. "You didn't frighten me. I just surprised you, that's all."

A ghost of a smile curled his lips, and then it was gone. He turned and started pacing again.

"That noise," she said gently, "was it you?"

"Yes," he replied, his voice flat and toneless. He turned his head and glanced towards the far end of the attic. Margot peered through the shadows and beams of fading sunlight and gasped when she saw a storage trunk that had been smashed into splinters against the brick wall of one of the chimneys. Those trunks were enormous, and incredibly heavy.

But, of course, it was no surprise to her that he had such inhuman strength.

She'd realized a long time ago that he was not quite human.

"Do you know what has happened to Lena and Abby?" she pressed.

"Yes," he replied. When he said nothing more, Margot frowned irritably.

"Well, aren't you going to rescue them?"

He stopped, and pinned her with those golden eyes. They were so bright they seemed to glow.

"Of course I am," he said calmly. Margot felt her panic dissipate. She could not help but smile at his confidence. He was a force of nature, unstoppable and overwhelming, and he would not rest until he brought Lena and Abby home safely. "But first, I need to speak with your mother."

* * *

**GREGOIRE**

A crash echoed through the house, as if something very large had fallen and shattered. Greg and his father both glanced up at the ceiling with frowns. Then their gazes snapped back to each other.

"Helena lost the child when Stanford abandoned her," his father finished, his voice grim.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Greg demanded, curling his hands into fists as he fought the growing urge to punch something.

"You would have killed him," his father replied. "It was all I could do to keep _myself_ from killing him."

"So you just _let him go_?!"

Philippe Jean-Marc, Vicomte de Millau, one of the great Spymasters of England, fixed his son with a very solemn, intense glare. "Son, after what Stanford did to Helena, I made damn sure that I ruined that man," he said, his voice deadly soft. "I bought his debts and unentailed properties and ran him out of England. I made him a beggar and a thief. He was a wretch, addicted to opium and stricken with syphilis."

"But why?" Greg demanded. "Why not just kill him?"

_Why not just let me kill him?_

He wasn't upset that his father had chased the bastard halfway across the world instead of sticking a knife in his gut. He just didn't understand it.

His father turned away and clasped his hands behind his back, and said nothing for several moments.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft. "Because death was too good for him. I wanted him to die, certainly. Miserable and alone, unloved and forgotten. But first, I wanted him to suffer."

"You should have put a bullet in his brain," Greg said, shaking his head. "I don't understand."

A heavy sadness shadows his father's eyes. "And I hope you never do, my boy."

"Why did you let him come back?"

"I didn't," Philippe said grimly. "I had no idea he was here until we saw him at the Opera the night of our arrival."

Now _that_ was highly unusual. As a Spymaster, Philippe was privy to any information he wanted. He knew what the Prince Regent had eaten for breakfast that morning.

"Someone was hiding him from you," Greg said with a frown.

Philippe nodded. "He was given unlimited access to funding, and he used it to bribe his way back into high society. That is why your Uncle Benjamin had Stanford in his box at the Opera that night. He was trying to determine how Stanford managed to return without warning."

"But why? Why did he come back?"

Why step into a snake pit full of people so eager to see him dead?

His father shrugged, a very French gesture that Greg's mother had tried for years to break him of. "I do not know. He disappeared again shortly after he met with Lena, and I have been unable to locate him. I have spent most of my time hunting him down."

A sharp knock sounded on the door, and Gerald opened it without waiting for an invitation. "My lord," he said quickly, "I have dispatched three footmen to the location Emily has given to Lady Dubois, as you instructed."

Philippe nodded. He turned to his desk, grabbed his pen and scribbled something onto a sheet of vellum, folding it quickly and sealing it with a splash of candlewax. As he pressed his signet ring into the cooling wax, he looked back up to Gerald. "Send a footman to the Home Office with this note. The guards will know what to do with it." He handed the letter to Gerald, and then glanced over at Greg. "And please send someone to fetch the Earl of Montford. I believe he will wish to be present for this undertaking."


	20. Family

_Author's Note: As always, my beta, ColeandPhoebeForever, is amazing. She helped me straighten out my timeline and Samson's age, and a good number of other inconsistencies brought on due to my laziness and considerable lack of any kind of measurable attention span. Thank you, Kim!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**SAMSON**

The halls of the Dubois household were dark and quiet, and every step Samson took sounded like a drum, matching the sound of his pulse pounding in his head. He followed Margot, keeping to the shadows as she led him towards the Blue Parlor.

The fury that had consumed him earlier, when he had learned the depth of Stanford's betrayal, had subsided in Margot's presence. He did not wish to see that look of terror on her face ever again. He wanted to kick himself for losing control like that. He had thought that his uncontrollable temper had been tamed in the past several months, but apparently it lived within him still, waiting to strike like a bolt of lightning, full of fire and fury and destruction.

Every atom in his body screamed at him to run into the streets and tear London apart until he found Lena. That was the reason his hands were trembling, because he had to fight so hard against his instincts and stay within the house as he gathered more information.

Oddly, he was not afraid to meet the Viscountess. Perhaps he should have been, considering the possible consequences of revealing himself, but he could not find the terror within him. All of his energy was devoted towards one singular goal: to find Helena. To bring her home. And to never, ever let her out of his sight again.

Margot stepped up to the door that led into the Blue Parlor and held her hand out to signal Samson to stop. He stepped back against the wall, as far into the shadows as he could go, and waited. His shirt felt intensely confining; a black linen vice that caged him in on all sides. He had found a great deal of clothing in the trunks in his attic, even a pair of sturdy leather boots that fit him surprisingly well. Apparently some of Helena's male ancestors had been giants as well. He had only needed a bundle of black linen, a needle and some thread to alter a shirt and pants to his measurements, and then, for the first time, he had known what it felt like to be a normal man, dressed in normal attire.

He hated it. The clothes men wore today, even when simplified, were constricting, uncomfortable, and infuriating. He greatly preferred the loose-fitting cotton trousers and thick fur cloak that he'd worn in France. But if he was to join the world of man, he had to be properly attired. No matter how much he chafed at the confining clothes, he knew they were necessary.

At least everything he wore now was black, so he blended well with the darkness.

He was most definitely not dressed as well as the men of the Dubois household, who retained a veritable army of French tailors, but at least he wouldn't be scandalizing anyone with a view of his bare chest.

Of course, his chest wouldn't scandalize Lena. In fact, he rather thought she might disapprove of his newly acquired clothing.

"Wait here a moment, so that I can make sure she's alone." Margot whispered, peeking into the parlor. "Oh, good." She raised her voice. "Maman? I need to speak with you."

"What is it, darling?" Lady Dubois replied from the parlor. She disguised it well, but Samson could hear the raw edge of pain in her voice.

Margot stepped inside, disappearing from Samson's view. He took a few steps back, increasing the distance between himself and the door, in case he needed to flee.

"Do you remember when Lena fell into the river when she was a child?" Margot asked. Samson almost smiled. Margot could definitely be trusted not to dance around the main point of a conversation.

"She told you about that, did she?" Regina asked wryly. Then she sighed. "Yes, of course I remember."

"And do you recall what she said when she was found?"

"She said that an angel had pulled her from the water. Margot, what is this all about?"

"And do you remember what you said a few months ago, about how you didn't care who it was that Lena had fallen in love with, because you were so happy to have her back?"

This time, Regina did not answer. She was silent. Samson took another step back.

"You know of him?" the Viscountess asked softly.

"He is the one who saved Lena from the river, Maman."

"And he is here? Now?" Her voice was trembling, but whether it was from sadness or anger, he couldn't tell.

Silence. Margot must have nodded.

"Send him in."

Margot appeared in the doorway, glancing around for Samson. She couldn't see him in the shadows, and that made leaving them so much more difficult. This was the last time he would ever be able to hide from the Dubois family. He felt as if he was balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff.

"Samson?" Margot whispered.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward. "I am here, child."

She waved him towards the door and disappeared back inside. The curtains had been drawn within the parlor, so the only light came from a few gas lamps and a fireplace within the room, casting a ghostly, dancing beam of orange light out in the hallway.

Samson stepped up to the door and reached out to push it open. His hand was shaking.

Suddenly, he wasn't so sure he could do this anymore. The old fear, the old memories of screaming and cursing and pain - so much pain - all of it came back to him, squeezing the air from his lungs, freezing him in place.

And then, like a cool, gentle wind kissing his skin on a hot summer day, he felt the soft brush of Lena's lips on his cheek, and he heard her voice echo through his thoughts, warm and sweet.

"_I love you_," she whispered.

Samson pushed the door open and stepped into the parlor.

He wasn't sure what to expect, but he was prepared for hysteria, every muscle in his body coiled tightly, ready to spring to life and carry him away into the night if the Viscountess screamed.

But she did not scream. She fixed her eyes on him, and even in the dim light, he could see that they were the exact same pale, vivid green as Helena's. Her hair shimmered in the light, the palest shade of blonde. Her skin was smooth and flawless, just like her daughter's. Time had treated Lady Dubois kindly.

She stood. Samson remained fixed in the doorway.

"My name is Regina Dubois," she said calmly. It did not escape him that she had introduced herself with her Christian name and not her title. That sort of familiarity was usually reserved only for family.

"Samson, my lady," he said, his voice soft and calm. Regina nodded, as if she thought the name suited him. A ghost of a smile curled his lips.

"It would appear that I have you to thank for saving my daughter's life," she continued, as casually as if she were discussing the weather with a friend.

"Anyone else would have done the same, my lady," he said.

Regina sent him a weary smile. "I doubt it. That river is notoriously treacherous. We are very lucky that you were nearby." Her voice softened, and her smile faded. "She told me about you, you know. She talked about you for months after you pulled her from the river. Her beautiful, dark-haired angel with golden eyes." Then she moved towards him, and Samson almost took a step back from her. He managed to stop himself just in time.

He submitted to her scrutiny, even though every fiber in his body screamed at him to run.

She nodded, just once. And Samson breathed a deep sigh of relief. She believed him.

Then she reached out for him. He could only watch in surprise as Helena's mother, the Viscountess of Aguessac, took one of his large hands in hers, and lifted it to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

He was too stunned to say anything.

When Regina released his hand, she lifted her gaze to his, and tears glittered in her eyes.

"Thank you for saving my baby," she said softly, her voice trembling. "Please help us save her again."

* * *

**GREGOIRE**

Greg had nearly finished his third glass of brandy when Gerald stepped into the library again, holding a scrap of paper. Greg stood, and his father stopped pacing to glance up at the butler.

"The footmen have returned from Hyde Park, my lord," Gerald said tonelessly. "They found Lord Stanford, shot dead."

Greg fought the immediate urge to shout with delight at the news of Stanford's death. It was both a blessing and a curse; everyone in the Dubois household wanted Stanford dead, but not in these circumstances. Not when he had been the only link to Lena and Abby's disappearance.

Gerald took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "There was no sign of the ladies."

Philippe sighed. "So Stanford was not responsible for this," he said grimly. "And he was not working alone."

"We found a note on his body, my lord," Gerald said gently, holding out the scrap of vellum. "But it does not seem to make much sense, I'm afraid."

Philippe took the note and nodded his dismissal to the butler with a murmured word of thanks. He unfolded the paper and read it aloud.

"_Of midnight vapor glide obscure, and pry in every bush and brake, where hap may find the serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds to hide me, and the dark intent I bring. You saved her from a river, once. Perhaps you can save her again_."

Philippe frowned down at the letter, confused. "Utter nonsense," he muttered.

Gregoire did not respond. He couldn't speak, or move, or breathe. He could only stare, unseeing, as the blood drained from his face. He reached blindly for his chair and sat quickly before his legs became unable to support him. His mind filled with images that he could not suppress. They came unbidden and uncontrolled, screaming through his head, blinding him to the present.

Suddenly, he was back in France. Back in his childhood. Back in the cold, dead forest.

He remembered that day so well. He remembered the biting winter air, and the distant sound of the river rushing through the woods, swollen into rapids by a late snow. The smell of frost and wood smoke from a distant fire. The sting of snowflakes as they drifted peacefully down onto his cheeks.

He remembered Lena's dress, a vivid blur of yellow amidst dead, gray woods and pristine white snow.

He remembered the fear, the sheer and abject terror that pounded through his blood and gave him wings as he ran from the creature in the woods.

He had not thought about it in so long. He had tried so very hard to forget.

It was rather small, for such a terrifying thing. Smaller than a bear. Smaller than a fully grown man. It moved through the forest on all fours, swift and silent and predatory, its fur a sick patchwork quilt of different colors and textures, matted with grime and dirt and blood. It wore the head of a wolf that was missing the bottom half of its jaw. A gaping, hollow grin. Hungry. Mindless. Terrifying.

It had taken years for Gregoire to realize that what he had seen was actually a mask, the skull of a wolf, hooded by the pelt of another creature.

Deep, shadowed eye sockets, and bright, glowing eyes, so pale blue they were almost white.

Those eyes watched him in his nightmares still.

The memory evaporated, leaving him shaking and tense, but firmly in the present.

"It's the monster," Greg said, his voice hoarse with shock and fear. His father's head snapped up, and his gaze was sharp and alarmed. "The thing that chased Lena into the river."

"Son," Philippe said in a firm voice, "nothing chased your sister into the river."

"I saw it!" Gregoire leapt to his feet and slammed his fist down onto the desk, making an inkwell and several candlesticks rattle violently. "I know you don't want to believe me, father, but I know what I saw. I did not imagine it. Something chased her. It looked right through me and it went after Helena and _I'll be damned if I let it hurt her again_!"

"Gregoire, be quiet," his mother commanded from the doorway, her voice sharp and unyielding. Greg whirled around to face her, and stopped dead in his tracks. Everything stopped. The clock stopped ticking, his heart stopped beating.

His mother stood in the doorway, head high and shoulders squared, perfectly relaxed, every inch a Viscountess. To her right, Margot clung to her skirt, watching them warily.

And to her left stood a giant.

He followed Regina and Margot into the room, and immediately the library seemed to shrink. He was at least a foot taller than Greg, probably more, and though he wore dark, nondescript clothing, Greg could tell that this stranger was enormously strong. His hair was long and black, and pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck. In the light of the fire and lamps, the skin on his face and hands was tanned and smooth, and lined with thick white scars.

All at once, every word Lena had ever spoken about her angel, the one who had saved her from the river, came rushing back to Greg.

_He was so tall, Greg! Taller even than Papa!_

_Long black hair, dark as a raven's wing._

_His eyes were yellow...no, no, they were golden. Do you think all angels have golden eyes?_

_Scars on his hands and face, like one of the pirate kings you're always pretending to be, except real._

_I don't know, perhaps his wings were lost when he came down from Heaven to save me._

Greg had never seen this angel. Jacques had shot him and scared him off by the time Greg's little legs had carried him to the river. But in the weeks that followed Lena's brush with death, her angel was the only thing she would talk about.

As it turned out, her description of him had been very accurate. This was the man who had pulled Helena from the river and saved her life.

"You," Greg said, his voice thick with disbelief.

The angel nodded, just once.

"It can't be," Greg's father whispered, narrowing his eyes. He shook his head. "Regina, who is this man?"

"Helena's angel," Regina replied calmly. "As luck would have it, he is real."

Greg's father pinned the giant with a skeptical frown. "Can you prove this?" he demanded.

The man nodded again, just once. Then he lifted his hand to the collar of his black linen shirt and pulled it to the side, revealing a round, puckered scar on his left shoulder. His skin was pulled taught over large muscles, and patterned with those thick, white scars. But the scar left by the bullet was darker, and newer than the rest of them. "She was wearing a yellow dress," he said. His voice was deep, and sad, and gentler than Greg had expected. His words had a very faint French accent.

Greg glanced over at his father to find that his face had gone very pale. "_Mon Dieu_," Philippe whispered, reaching blindly for the chair next to him, and sitting down heavily. "_C'est impossible_."

"_Ce n'est pas impossible, mon amour_," Regina said softly. "_C'est vrais_."

_It is not impossible, my love. It is true._

Though his hands were trembling slightly, Greg found his voice. "Did you see it?" he demanded. "Did you see what chased her into the river?"

The giant pinned him with bright yellow eyes. Golden. His lips thinned, and the muscles in his jaw clenched.

"Yes," he said in that gentle voice. "It wore the skull of a wolf."

"A mask," Greg said, nodding.

"It had blue eyes," the giant continued, and his large hands curled into fists, and his eyes flickered in the firelight. "It smelled like blood."

In the silence following this statement, everyone seemed frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the giant.

Everyone but Greg, who stepped forward, heart pounding. All eyes turned to him. He moved around his desk and walked towards the giant, whose expression was mixed, equal parts wariness and confusion. He flinched when Greg moved within arm's reach, a movement so subtle and discreet that Greg almost didn't notice it.

The giant was afraid.

Up close, he was even larger, with thick muscles that strained the fabric on his chest and arms. He was easily a foot taller than Greg, perhaps more.

Greg held his hand out, and the giant blinked, and then, after a brief hesitation, he reached out and shook his hand. His palms were rough and calloused, like Greg's, and his grip was firm, but gentle.

"What is your name?" Greg asked.

"Samson," the giant replied.

A voice came from the hallway behind them. "I see you've brought Goliath to aid our cause, Greg."

Samson stepped aside and allowed Montford to enter the room. He was staring up at Samson with awe and interest.

"Jasper, Earl of Montford," he said with a nod. "Forgive my rudeness, but I am incapable of holding my tongue in times of stress."

Samson nodded. "It is a fitting name, I think."

"Nonsense," Margot said sharply from beside her mother. "Goliath was evil. You are not."

Despite himself, Greg smiled. So did Samson.

Then Greg nodded and leaned forward, so that only Samson and Montford could hear him. "They found a note on Stanford's body," he said softly, and he lifted his gaze to Samson. "I believe the message was meant for you."


	21. Monster

**HELENA**

The carriage was well sprung, and relatively new. Lena and Abby sat across from Jack in tense, uncomfortable silence. Lena tried to focus on the distance they had travelled, and the turns they were taking, but she knew it was no use. He had probably instructed one of his minions to take them in random circles to conceal their true destination.

It was what she would have done.

"Where are you taking us?" Abby demanded.

"Please do not ask anymore questions, Miss De Lacey," Jack replied cordially. He had spent several minutes reloading his pistol, and now had it aimed directly at Lena. "I would hate to have to gag you. Quite uncivilized, don't you think?"

"So is killing a man in cold blood and kidnapping two women from a park," Abby replied, her tone sharp. Lena sighed.

"Abby, do be quiet," Lena said wearily. "Your anger is not helping our situation."

Abby sent her a sulky frown. "It's making me feel better."

Jack watched their exchange, that eerie smile never leaving his face. His gaze had a disturbing quality to it, up close. His pupils were smaller than normal, and his irises were a very pale, yellowy green. He did not blink often enough, either. Lena felt a chill slide down her spine. Who was this man?

More importantly, _what_ was this man?

"We will be arriving shortly, ladies," Jack said with a satisfied nod.

"Arriving where, _béte_?" Abby snapped. Lena sighed again. Abby had just called him a beast. They were definitely going to get gagged.

Jack narrowed his eyes at her. "I believe I shall have to gag you after all, Miss De Lacey," he mused. "Your tongue is liable to get you killed; my master has quite a temper."

"How kind of you," Abby replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Jack just shrugged.

"Who is your master?" Lena asked softly. Jack flicked his wide, yellow eyes back to her.

"You will find out soon enough," he said.

Someone knocked on the carriage roof, and Jack gestured to Abby with the pistol. "You first, Miss De Lacey," he said pleasantly. "If you scream, I will kill Lady Helena."

Abby shot him a look that would have killed a lesser man, and stepped out of the carriage. Lena followed slowly. Her skin tingled, knowing that Jack had his gun pointed directly between her shoulder blades.

The sun was setting, casting a hazy orange light over the world. Crickets chirped and birds sang peacefully. It was such a sharp contrast to the dark, frightening interior of the carriage that Lena felt slightly dizzy. They were in a garden. A large red brick house concealed them from the street.

The two large henchmen, Alfred and Henry, waited beside the carriage. When Lena's feet touched solid ground, the red-haired Alfred grabbed Abby and Henry, the man with short, dark hair, stepped up behind Lena. He did not touch her, nor did he smile. He just stood there, silent and intimidating.

Jack gestured to Lena's cousin with his gun. "Gag her," he commanded. Alfred nodded and pulled a rag from his pocket.

Abby opened her mouth to protest, and Jack casually lifted his gun and placed the barrel against Lena's temple. Abby froze, eyes wide. Lena closed her eyes. It seemed so unfair, that she might die without ever seeing her companion's face. Or hearing his voice again. Or feeling his lips on hers.

"Don't," Abby pleaded, voice trembling. "Please."

"Then I suggest that you follow orders without complaint," Jack said gently. Lena felt the cool metal barrel disappear from her skin, and opened her eyes. Abby was crying silently, tears glittering on her cheeks in the broken sunlight.

"Abby," Lena said softly, "_ne pleure pas, s'il te plaît. Tout ira bien, je te promets_."

_Please don't cry. Everything will be fine, I promise._

"You should not make promises that you cannot keep, Lady Helena," Jack said, his voice gentle and just a little bit... sad?

Lena glanced over at Jack, and for the first time she realized why he unnerved her so. Long dark hair, pale yellow-green eyes, and tanned skin...He reminded her of her angel. The one who had saved her from the river when she was a child.

But her angel would never harm her. Seeing this man, who looked so similar, was a slap in the face to her warm memory of the man that had rescued her.

She leveled her gaze on him, unblinking and intense.

"I don't," she said simply.

For the first time since he had appeared before them in Hyde Park, his smile faltered. His brows furrowed, and his lips curled down into a concerned frown. This micro-emotion lasted only for the briefest instant, a moment of insecurity that allowed her to see past his mask.

He was miserable.

A heartbeat later, his smile returned, glazing over his face with the unreadable blankness that always hid strong emotions. Lena knew that look well, because her father had taught her how to read expressions when she was a child. He had trained her alongside Greg, though they had all known that Greg would be the one to continue his education in the field of surveillance and reconnaissance, and Lena would not. Her father had insisted that she learn anyway, and she had mastered the skill of reading expressions.

It was how she had seen the fear that had flashed in Stanford's eyes the day he'd met with her in the garden. It was how she had noticed the utter hatred in Susanna Bennington's eyes the night of Ashton's ball.

She recognized it easily on Jack, now that they were surrounded by dusky light and garden lanterns, and not hidden in the shadowy woods or a near-pitch-black carriage. He was not at all happy with what was going on.

He jerked his head towards the house and followed silently as Henry and Alfred marched Abby and Lena up the garden path and towards the servant's entrance. Abby's mouth was gagged, but when her gaze met Lena's, her eyes were dry, and resolute.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Please wait in the stables," Jack said politely. "I will be there shortly with your payment."

The men nodded. The dark-haired one, Henry, was watching Helena with a thoughtful frown. Alfred nudged him with his elbow, and together they turned and walked around the house and out of sight.

"You will let them live, won't you?" Lena asked. She could not shake the look of pain on Henry's face.

"No," Jack replied, and if Lena hadn't been listening for it, she would have missed the faint hint of sadness in his voice. "This way, please."

There were no servants in sight as Lena and Abby were herded through the storage rooms and kitchen, and up the back stairs to the main living area of the house.

They were brought into a darkened parlor, with heavy curtains drawn tight over the windows and no lamps or lit fire. The room was nearly pitch black.

Lena glanced over at Jack, and saw him back out of the room and close the door firmly behind him. Lena immediately moved to Abby's side to help her untie the gag. Abby breathed a heavy sigh of relief when the rag fell to the floor. She turned and immediately pulled Lena into a tight hug.

"What is going to happen to us, Lena?" she whispered. Lena gave her an encouraging squeeze.

"Relax," she replied. "We will be fine."

_I know he will come for me. He will save us both._

Something moved in the darkness around them, the softest whisper of cloth, the tap of shoes on cool marble. Lena whirled around, pushing Abby behind her, to face the source of the noise.

A single flame flared to life, catching fire to the wick of a lantern near the far corner. Lena watched the flame cast terrifying yellow shadows along the walls, stretching in a circle, illuminating the small table it sat on, the wall behind it, and the chair beside it.

From the corner, the darkest part of the room, something moved forward, a misshapen blob that slowly took form as it stepped into the circle of light cast by the lamp.

At first, the only thought that Lena's blank mind could summon was:_ Fur_. Matted, dirty fur; a patchwork quilt of the hides of many different animals sewn crudely together.

Then, she saw the face.

It wore the skull of a wolf, with the bottom half of its jaw missing. It smiled its gaping, hollow smile at her, its eye sockets dark and empty.

The smell of blood hit her so hard she almost fell to her knees.

Her vision blurred.

Time stopped.

She was back in the forest again, running through the snow, bitter cold winds whipping through her hair. Snowflakes stinging her skin. Her mind in a blind panic, crying out for someone to help her, to save her.

_Please._

_Please!_

But she couldn't speak.

Her voice wouldn't work.

She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

And even as a child, she knew what was going to happen.

She knew she was going to die.

Because it was gaining on her, a flickering shadow at the edge of her vision. Taunting her, taking slow, casual strides. Dancing through the forest in silent delight.

Hungry for her blood.

Hungry for her death.

Hungry for her soul.

Abby whimpered behind her, snapping her back into the present. She blinked, and felt Abby cling to her arm like she was drowning.

The monster just stared. Waiting. Head tilted like a curious dog.

Waiting for her to crumble.

_No!_ Lena thought angrily. _You have no power over me!_

She refused. She flat out refused to be ruled by this monster any longer. It had chased her for years, it had haunted her every waking moment, and tormented her dreams. It had followed her, no matter where she went, until the night her companion had finally woken her from her terrors.

It had tried to control her; it had drowned her emotions in fear and made her numb to everything.

Until her companion had found her. He had saved her from her nightmares.

He had saved her from a life of apathy and detachment.

And he would save her from this beast.

"I will not run from you anymore," she said to her nightmare. "You are not real."

From behind those empty, dead sockets, and from beneath that sharp, gaping smile, there came soft, childish laughter. A hand - a small, delicate, human hand - reached up and pulled off the wolf mask, dropping it in a macabre heap on the floor.

Lena's anger dissolved, and in its place, she felt nothing but complete and utter shock.

"My dear Helena," Susanna Bennington said with a cruel, predatory smile, "I assure you, I am."


	22. Hunt

_Author's Note: Have another chapter, my lovely readers, and by all means, please feel free to review. As always, my beta, ColeandPhoebeForever, rocks._

_Also, if you notice an error, kindly point it out to me. I promise I will not get upset. I live to write, and I am always trying to improve._

* * *

**SAMSON**

"_Of midnight vapor glide obscure, and pry in every bush and brake, where hap may find the serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds to hide me, and the dark intent I bring_. _You saved her from a river, once. Perhaps you can save her again._"

Samson felt his heart freeze in his chest as he read the note. His hands were trembling. Thoughts were flying through his mind as he searched frantically through memories, hoping to find an answer to the one, horrible question that kept repeating itself over and over again in his head.

_How does he know? How does he know? How?!_

_It's not possible._

_I have never told anyone else._

"Do you know what it means, Samson?" Regina asked gently.

"I'm not sure," he said, his voice rough with the emotions he struggled to control. "But I know that it is a verse from _Paradise Lost_."

"Milton?" Greg asked with a frown. Samson nodded.

_It doesn't make sense_, he thought. _How could the kidnapper know that I've read _Paradise Lost_? How could he know how important this work was to me?_

_It's not possible. It can't be possible._

_My father was the only one who knew._

_My father is dead._

Victor had died before his very eyes, eight years ago in the middle of the frozen wasteland of the Arctic, aboard a ship…

Perhaps one of the sailors…?

No, that made no sense. He had nearly frightened them into mutiny when he boarded the ship to take his father's body. The captain, though he had recorded Victor's story in letters to his sister, had barely believed it himself, and he'd seen Samson with his own eyes.

Anyone who read his letters might have thought the captain insane.

They would _definitely_ have thought Victor Frankenstein insane.

_Think_, he commanded of himself. _Why would someone place a verse from Paradise Lost on a dead man? Why go through such great lengths just to taunt me?_

_They wouldn't. At least, not _just_ to taunt me._

It had to mean something. There had to be some instructions hidden within the words. He read them again.

_Of midnight vapor glide obscure_, _and pry in every bush and brake. _Midnight. That could be the time limit. They had until midnight to find Helena and Abigail.

_Where hap may find the serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds to hide me, and the dark intent I bring_. At best, serpents were widely considered to be symbols of cleverness. At worst, they were considered harbingers of evil.

But… hiding in a serpent? How could someone hide in a snake?

Unless the snake was meant to symbolize something else… Something that was big enough to hide someone, to hide danger, to hide dark intentions. And at the same time allow for a quick escape.

Could it be the Serpentine? No, that wasn't a river so much as it was a lake, and it was completely surrounded by Hyde Park. It would offer no means of escape.

_You saved her from a river, once. Perhaps you can save her again._

A river.

There was only one river in London.

The Thames.

"He wants me to meet him at midnight," Samson said. "The serpent is referring to the Thames. He will be somewhere along the river."

"Along the river?" Greg repeated, his tone desperate. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in a wild tangle of golden curls. "There are hundreds of staires and docks in London. How will we find him?"

Samson frowned down at the note, trying to think. "He'll want to be able to get away quickly if things go wrong," he murmured. "That means he'll probably be in or near a boat. And he wants me to be there when…" he trailed off, unable to complete his thought aloud. _He wants me to be there to watch him kill Helena._

His heart cried out at the thought. He fought against the instincts that screamed at him, so full of rage and despair. He fought the urge to tear out of the house and dismantle London brick by brick. He felt impotent, weak, and useless.

_Think_, he commanded of himself. _Think. He wants you to be there. He must have left something to guide you, to point you in the right direction, to help you track her down…_

_Wait_.

_Track her…_

If this bastard knew everything about Samson, then he would know everything about Helena, as well, for Samson was almost always near her. So he would know Lena's schedule, her habits, her friends…

Tentatively, Samson lifted the piece of vellum to his nose and inhaled.

Instantly, he jerked the note back away from his face. The smell of blood filled his head, and his survival instincts roared back to the surface. He growled softly, forcing his heart beat to slow, forcing his breathing to remain even and calm. He could not lose control. Not now. He had to focus.

He smelled the note again, holding it further away from his face this time.

Beneath the blood he smelled something else, something distinct and strong and terribly familiar.

Lavender.

"_Que sale fils de pute_," he snarled, crumpling the note in his hand. Greg nodded, in full agreement with Samson's profanity. Even Regina nodded. Margot looked thoughtful, and was most likely memorizing the curse for use at a later date.

"What is it?" Philippe asked. Samson held the crumpled wad of vellum out in his palm. Crushing the paper in his hand, and warming it with his body heat, had released the scent, and it spread like slow poison through the room. Blood and lavender. Death and beauty. Terror and joy.

The viscount wrinkled his nose. "A scent trail?" he murmured. "But how are we supposed to…"

"Zeus!" Margot shouted in sudden comprehension. From somewhere deep inside the house, Lena's mastiff barked in response. They heard someone shout, and the sound of paws scrabbling on slick wood. Margot grinned. Samson nodded, and gave her a small smile.

But inside, he was trembling, filled with fear.

The man who had kidnapped Lena and Abby knew about the lavender that grew wild in Samson's woods, outside the Dubois estate in France. He knew about Samson's affinity for Milton. He knew that Samson had been the one to save Lena.

He knew everything.

That meant he knew what Samson was.

God help them all.

Zeus burst into the room, barking so loudly that everyone in the room winced at the assault on their ears. The big mastiff bounded over to Margot and licked her face happily. Margot giggled, and scratched his ears. He was almost as tall as she was.

"_Ici_," Samson commanded, voice soft. _Here._

Zeus turned and padded over to Samson's side and sat down, staring up at Samson with complete adoration, mouth open, tongue lolling, big tail thumping happily on the carpet.

"Smart dog," Montford said approvingly.

"Indeed," Philippe said. His eyes narrowed. Samson returned his gaze steadily. He would not lie to Helena's father. If the viscount asked, he would speak the truth. The Dubois family deserved nothing less.

Regina cleared her throat, interrupting the staring match before Philippe could verbalize his suspicions.

Samson kneeled beside Zeus and held the crumpled note up for the mastiff to sniff.

The change was instant. One moment, Zeus was happy and playful, eagerly awaiting his master's next command.

The next moment, all the hairs along his spine stood up, and his jowls drew back in a snarl, baring large, sharp teeth. A low growl rumbled from within his chest.

"_Suivre_," Samson commanded. _Follow._

Zeus leapt to his feet and rushed out of the library, disappearing down the hallway, his bark deep and loud and furious.

Samson stood, and glanced around the room. "I can keep up with him," he said, moving his gaze to Lena's father, "with your permission, my lord."

Philippe nodded. "We will follow at a slower pace, and wait for your signal to approach."

"I'll get the carriage," Regina said with a nod.

Four male voices spoke simultaneously: "_No._"

Regina lifted her eyebrows and met the eyes of each man in turn. She looked like a queen, preparing to do battle with her greatest enemies. Samson could not help but admire her strength and veracity; he would not like to have Regina Dubois as an enemy.

"It is not up for discussion," she said coldly.

"Regina, please," Philippe began, but he was cut off by a wave of her hand.

"You have endangered your life and the life of our son on many occasions, Philippe, and I have not said a word," she said, wrapping her arms around Margot's shoulders and pulling her close. "I will not be left behind to worry about your fate. Not this time. Not when I stand to lose my daughter and niece as well."

Greg and Samson exchanged glances, and looked to the viscount. Philippe's jaw was clenched tightly, and his hands curled into fists.

"Fine," he said sharply. "But you will stay in the carriage until we have Lena back safely."

"No," Regina replied, her voice soft and deadly, "I will not." She turned and moved forward, placing her hand on Samson's arm. Her expression softened, and she smiled. "Go," she said gently. "We will be right behind you."

Samson nodded, and stepped out into the hallway.

He found Zeus howling at the front door. The mastiff glanced over his shoulder at Samson, giving him an impatient look.

"_Laisse aller chasser_," Samson said with a dark, feral grin.

_Let's go hunting._

Zeus barked eagerly.

Samson opened the door.


	23. Lilith

_Author's Note: Sorry about the confusion, folks. Susanna's been the villain in my mind for so long I forgot how much it shocked me when I first realized it myself. Hopefully, everything will be explained in this chapter. As always, my beta, ColeandPheobeForever, is awesome._

* * *

**HELENA**

Susanna stepped delicately around the pile of furs that had traumatized Lena so much as a child, and sat in the chair by the lamp, grinning broadly. She was wearing a beautiful black lace dress and one of her signature necklaces, a thick band of ribbon, edged with lace and glittering with tiny black diamonds.

"You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that," she said in that faint, raspy voice, reaching out and turning the lamp higher so that its light could reach the rest of the room. "Do have a seat. We have much to discuss."

Lena did not move. Abby remained behind her, clinging to her arm so tightly it was beginning to go numb.

Susanna Bennington. Baroness Bennington. Memories flashed through Lena's mind, searching for anything that might help her understand what was going on.

The only thing that came to mind was the flash of hatred she had seen on Susanna's face at the ball a few months earlier. At the time, she had chalked it up to Susanna's bitterness at losing Stanford again.

But, now…

Now Lena thought it might have been more than that.

Susanna's smile dimmed, and her eyes narrowed.

"Sit _down_," she hissed.

Lena lifted one eyebrow at her. "I would prefer to remain standing."

Susanna's lip curled in a silent snarl, but then, a moment later, that predatory grin was back, and she started laughing again. It was the sound of madness, high-pitched and harsh… almost animal.

"Fine, by all means, remain standing," she said through her giggles. Her voice had always been faint and raspy, but now it barely even sounded human. "I do so enjoy the sight of you two standing in the corner like frightened little mice."

Abby's grip on Lena's arm loosened, and her hands stopped shaking. Lena felt herself stand straighter, and she heard Abby take a deep, calming breath.

Dubois women do not cower in the face of danger.

"Susanna," Lena began, "what is…"

"Do not call me that!" Susanna interrupted, voice harsh. "My real name is Lilith."

Lilith. Adam's first mate, who was cast out from the Garden of Eden, to become the first demon.

Lena blinked. "Very well, Lilith," she said tonelessly. "What is going on? Why have you kidnapped us?"

Lilith smiled that feral smile again, all teeth bared at them, like an angry dog. "Do you remember when I chased you into the river, when you were a little girl?"

Lena felt the blood drain from her face, but she did not waver. "Yes," she said through gritted teeth.

"I wanted to kill you because you were beautiful. So colorful, so vibrant! So full of life!" She tilted her head and sighed. "I wanted to rip your little face off. I hated you from the moment I saw you."

"Why?" Lena whispered. What had she done to deserve such animosity?

"Jealousy is one of the strongest emotions in us," Lilith replied with a casual shrug. "We have been denied so much, and so unfairly. I envied your innocence, your beauty, and even your family. You had everything I did not."

"Us?" Abby whispered. Lilith's icy blue eyes flickered to Lena's cousin, and Lena tensed and moved to block Lilith's line of sight. It would be better if Lilith forgot about Abby entirely. Then Lilith would not have any reason to harm her.

"Yes, little Abigail," Lilith hissed. "We are Melius. Created by science, not nature. We are superior to humans in every way."

"How many of you are there?" Lena asked, drawing Lilith's attention back to her.

Lilith grinned. "Three," she said softly. "Me, and Jack, whom I created," she paused for a moment, narrowing her eyes, "and, of course, Helena's secret companion; darling Eros, who visits Psyche in the darkness to conceal his true form."

This time, Lena could not control herself as the blood drained from her face. Her sight blurred, and darkened, and her lungs constricted. She gasped for breath, and felt Abby take hold of her arm and guide her to the small sofa nearby. Distantly, she could hear Lilith laughing. Abby was murmuring to her in a comforting voice.

"How do you know about him?" Lena demanded, trying to blink away the spots that danced in her vision.

"Know about him? _Know_ about him?" Lilith's rasping laughter turned maniacal. "I have known about him for _twelve years_, you ignorant little fool. I know his past better than you do. I know _everything_ about him."

Lena forced her dizziness away, focusing on Lilith's face, determined not to faint. Not now. Not when she was in the hands of a psychotic enemy.

"How?" Lena whispered.

"Little fool," Lilith repeated, smiling. "He was the one who pulled you from the river."

At first, Lena didn't understand. Her mind simply couldn't process the information Lilith had given her.

Her mind flashed back, to the day she had nearly died. The day she was pulled from the darkness by a fallen angel.

Her angel. Pale skin and white scars and golden eyes that flickered with their own light. A strong jaw, an aristocratic nose, and long black hair.

_I have seen his face_, she thought suddenly. _All this time, he visited me in darkness, when I already knew what he looked like._

"He saved my life," Lena whispered.

_He saved my life, and then he returned, twelve years later, to save it again_. _To bring me back to the world of the living_. She had made the decision to stop running from her nightmares, but if he had not been there to show her how beautiful life could be without terror, she never would have known what she was missing.

He truly was an angel.

"Yes," Lilith said with a sigh, "an unfortunate mistake, I think. But in a way, I am glad he did. For if he had not shown himself, I would never have known who and what he is."

"What… _what_ he is?" Lena asked, frowning in confusion.

Lilith blinked at her. Then that wide, terrifying smile crept back onto her face.

"He is a Melior, like me," she said proudly. "He was made by science, constructed from the detritus of humanity, and brought to life by lightning. I followed him, I heard him tell his story to his father. I heard him beg for a companion, but he did not know that I was already there. I had already been created, just for him!"

"Constructed…?" Abby wondered.

Lilith reached up and unclasped the necklace from around her throat, pulling it away and tilting her head back.

Her neck was neatly bisected with a thick, white scar. As if she had been beheaded, and then pieced back together.

Lena's angel had a scar just like that.

_You have to know what I am_. His voice echoed through Lena's mind.

"We were not born, but made," Lilith said. "We were constructed from the corpses of others, created to be faster and stronger and smarter than you pathetic little creatures. We are Melius; we are superior." She smirked at Lena. "You did not realize this. My darling Adam did not see fit to explain it to you."

"Adam?" Lena demanded.

Lilith shrugged. "He was not given a name by his father."

_Why don't you have a name? _It felt like years since she had asked him that question, in the middle of a peaceful spring night in southern France.

_I was not given one_.

"So I gave him one," Lilith continued. "A good, strong name. A name befitting the first male of a new, superior race. I was the first, of course. I was created several years before Adam."

Lena exchanged a quick glance with Abby.

"Perhaps you could tell us more about your creation," she suggested cautiously. If they could distract her, perhaps they could buy some time for their rescuers. "Then we might understand."

Lilith tilted her head at Lena. "You will never understand," she said. "But I will tell you nonetheless. I was created by a man named Gabriel Waldman. He was a professor of biology at the University of Ingolstadt." She leaned back, and her gaze drifted to the ceiling. Her voice grew faint. "I was his masterpiece, each limb cultivated from the finest specimens and stitched meticulously together. He brought me to life only to enslave me. Me, his greatest creation! I was kept in a _cage_ for the first year, while he taught me and tested me and used my body to satisfy his desires. How I hated him!"

Lilith sighed, and closed her eyes. "And yet, I loved him. He was all I knew. He was God." She smiled. "I escaped, of course. I was far cleverer than he. But my time with him had damaged me. I was angry, and wild, and frightened. I could not bring myself to kill him, and that infuriated me. So I ran, I ran as far and as fast as I could. I lived in the wilderness, avoiding humans, for two years, scavenging and foraging at first, and then, as my strength grew, hunting and trapping animals. I wore their skin to keep me warm and I quickly found that when I put the skull of a wolf over my face, I could scare humans away from my hiding places with ease."

Her eyes slid open again, and locked onto Lena's, burning bright and pale. "That's when I found _you_. I heard your laughter, and when I saw you I knew I had to kill you. You, who had everything I did not; you were so innocent and carefree, and my envy so strong, that I had to destroy you."

She smiled. "I failed, of course. I was distracted by the man who came to your rescue, the enormous, tall stranger, whose skin was covered in scars. I thought perhaps he was like me, for I, too, had those scars, just not as many. I learned later that the uniformity of Adam's construction was hindered by his father's passion and youth. Waldman was older, and wiser, and more patient. That is why Adam has so many scars. His father put him together from ill-fitting pieces. It took years for his skin to even out in tone and texture, and to take on the hue of living flesh."

When Lena did not react to this bit of news, Lilith shrugged and continued. "I followed him, I watched him, and I waited. He has done things that you could not imagine. He has struggled so much, and suffered so greatly. I followed him to his father, Victor Frankenstein, and I heard him tell his story. I heard him beg for a companion, and I knew that he meant me. He just did not realize it. He did not know that Frankenstein's mentor, the one who had encouraged him in his scientific endeavors, had already discovered the secret to life. My darling Dr. Waldman."

She sighed. "He's dead, now. So is Frankenstein. Men who play at being God are never long for this world, no matter the magnificence of their creations."

_She does seem to be rather in love with herself, doesn't she?_

Lena brushed the thought aside. Being catty would do her no good.

"I could not find the courage to approach Adam, no matter how long I followed him, no matter how much I learned about him. And then I lost track of him when he went north with his father, into the lands of ice and snow; I was not strong enough to keep up with them, and I would not have survived the cold. When they both failed to return to Ingolstadt, I assumed them dead." Lilith's brow furrowed, and her lips turned down in a dark frown. "I was devastated. I mourned Adam's death." She sighed. "Six years passed, and during them I devoted most of my time and energy towards learning to become a human, learning to fit in. It was dreadfully tedious, but I managed to work my way into high society. I wanted everything I had been denied. I wanted security, and money, and power, and control. And I achieved my goals. I even created another Melior, though Jack turned out to be substandard, for reasons I do not understand. It did not matter; I had created a mate, I had wealth and influence, I had beauty and luxury. And that's when I found _you_ again." Her sharp, pale eyes landed on Lena again, and her voice grew harsh and venomous. "Alive, and dancing, smiling, and flirting with every man you met. How I hated you! How I railed at fate! I had failed to kill you once, and you returned to haunt me in the new life I had created for myself!"

She calmed, and that vicious smile returned. "So I resolved to destroy you, but this time, I would do it without killing you. I had hoped you would do that yourself once I was finished with you."

"What do you mean?" Lena asked, careful to keep the accusation from her tone.

"You still haven't figured it out?" Lilith asked, laughing. "I _told_ Stanford to fall in love with you, or at least pretend to. He was my lover; he would have done anything for me. I told him to seduce you, to lead you into believing that he meant to marry you. And I told him to abandon you."

"I don't believe you," Lena said quietly. She did, though. She believed every word. She knew this creature was capable of that kind of torture, that kind of cruelty. She said she did not believe it, because she knew that was what Lilith wanted her to say.

Her mind flashed backwards through her memories, bringing up that day in the garden, when Stanford had come to visit her, and to apologize for what he had done.

She knew, now, that he had meant every word. He was a coward, and a brute, but he had truly been sorry about what he had done to her.

And the last words he'd said to her that day were: _"Whoever he is, I hope he can protect you from…"_

And she had the sneaking suspicion that what he had been about to say was, "Lilith."

But that was just a guess.

Lena let the thought go, and with it, she let her anger towards Jacob Stanford go.

He had not been a good man.

But perhaps that was not entirely his fault.

Lilith shrugged. "I don't care if you believe me or not," she said, smiling. "But haven't you ever wondered who started the rumor of your father's death? And your brother's?" She paused, and tilted her head. "You fled to France, and two years passed. When you didn't kill yourself in that time, I decided to hunt down your darling cousin, Abigail. I hoped her death might push you over the edge. But she had already left for England. I overheard her parents talking about Helena's new love, the nameless man Abigail had spoken of."

Abby gasped. "If you injured my parents…" she began, voice trembling with rage.

"Relax, child," Lilith interrupted with a wave of her hand. "I did not harm them. They are very special to Adam."

"My parents know… Adam?" Abby asked.

_That is not his name_, Lena thought angrily. _I don't know what his name is, but it is not Adam. It is not any name Lilith has given him_.

Lilith nodded. "I believe you knew him as the Forest Spirit," she said casually.

Abby's mouth dropped open. Lena was not surprised. In fact, she doubted she could even be surprised anymore. She was still reeling from the shock of discovering that the monster that had chased her into the river had turned out to be the hateful little creature in front of them. She was still having trouble processing the idea that her companion had not been born… but had been made.

It was strange, to think of it. But when she put that together with the rest of her knowledge of him, it made sense. It explained his fear of being seen, and it explained his intense self-hatred. It explained his jealousy, and his possessiveness of Lena.

It explained why he had tried to separate himself from her, as well. If he truly thought he was a monster, he would not have wished to curse Lena with his presence for the rest of her life.

Her heart ached for him. She was suddenly consumed with the desperate need to hear his voice, to touch him with her own hands. If she ever saw him again, she was never going to let him out of her sight, not for the rest of their lives.

"I sent a letter to Stanford ordering him to return to England on the next ship. He arrived a day before you did," Lilith said, eyes focused on Lena. Her lips curled into a frown. "Unfortunately, his presence did not have the devastating effect on you that I had hoped it would. He became a liability."

"That's why you had him killed," Lena murmured.

Lilith nodded.

"He was helpful in one aspect, though," Lilith said quietly. "It was through his meeting with you that I discovered that Adam was still alive. That he followed you everywhere. That he never left you unguarded. And that he believes himself to be in love with you."

Silence fell. Lena nodded. It was no surprise to her, that he had followed her to London. She had felt his presence in every shadow, at every street corner. But she'd had no proof, only dreams and wishful fantasy, and that had nearly driven her mad.

Lilith was trembling visibly. Her face was carefully blank, a mask that hid emotions so dark and powerful Lena could feel them on her skin.

"It was not enough that you had everything else, was it?" she whispered, eyes blazing. "You had to have him, as well. You had to have my mate, the only creature in the entire world who is just like me."

At that moment, Lena knew, without a single doubt in her mind, that Lilith would not stop until Lena was dead. She would never stop. She would follow them to the ends of the Earth. She would haunt Lena's shadow for the rest of her life.

At that moment, Lena knew what it felt like to be someone's curse.

But she would not bow to Lilith's demands. She would never give up her companion.

If she were going to die, she would die fighting for the man she loved.

Fighting for _everything_ she loved.

She looked down at her hands, clasped tightly around Abby's, and was relieved to see that they weren't shaking. She lifted her gaze to meet her cousin's, and found them warm and reassuring. Comforting. Loving.

"He was the Forest Spirit," Abby said quietly. "He was your angel."

"He is the man I love," Lena whispered. She shifted her gaze over to meet Lilith's mad blue eyes, and when she spoke again, her voice was firm and calm: "and he is _nothing_ like you."

Lilith's blank expression melted away, and her lips curled into a silent snarl, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. She looked wild. She looked feral. Her eyes flickered in the lamplight, as if she was staring into a fire. But there was no fire.

She stood from her chair, back straight, shoulders squared. "Jack!" she called, her voice hoarse.

The door opened, and Jack stepped silently into the room.

"Tie them up and put them in the carriage," she snarled, eyes burning into Lena's. "We're going to the river, to finish what we started."


	24. Yours

_Author's Note: My beta helped me a LOT with the Cockney in this chapter, and then I went and undid some (not all!) of her hard work, because it bothered my OCD, and I've always hated reading those historical romance novels set in the Highlands, where you have to physically sound out every word the laird says because the author insists on constantly writing in his vernacular. Does that make sense? I dunno, I'm kind of drunk. I hope it does._

_Anyway, ColeandPhoebeForever is awesome, and I hope she forgives me for re-editing some of the dialogue._

* * *

**SAMSON**

It had been a long time since Samson had been on a hunt. Now, as his body began to remember the call of instinct, his blood ran hot, and sparks flickered over his skin, tiny motes of light generated by the energy within him.

He was born of death and lightning. He was stronger and faster than most, if not all, men. He was sustained by the powerful, destructive forces that had brought him into this world. He could go for days without food or rest, and he would destroy _anything_ that came between him and the woman he loved.

As he walked through the dark, narrow alleys of South London, memories flickered through his mind, brief and bright, like fireflies dancing over a meadow. Lena's smile in the darkness, the soft brush of her lips over his, the silken smoothness of her skin. The playful warmth in her voice. The way her pale green eyes glittered when she laughed.

He followed the large, dark shadow that was Zeus, and Samson knew that he moved the same way, silent and quick and determined. Like a hunter. Like a predator.

Occasionally, he would stop, and ahead of him, Zeus would stop. They would wait, still and tense, until the small lantern attached to the Dubois carriage came into view behind them. Gregoire would appear before the carriage, on horseback, and nod.

And then Samson would start moving again, and Zeus would do the same, and the silent pursuit would continue.

Samson had a keen sense of smell, but he could not distinguish the scent of Lena's kidnapper among the millions of other smells that permeated the streets of London. Zeus, however, could do just that. He led the way, through a maze of alleyways and side streets, down Bankton Avenue, around the circumference of Hyde Park twice, through Belgrave Square and then straight down Picadilly and left on Park Lane. They were back in the part of town where most of the aristocracy lived, where stately manors each claimed a quarter of a block. Most of the nobility kept small stables and elaborate gardens, not to mention guesthouses and carriage houses.

A deep howl arose from several blocks ahead. Samson sprinted towards the sound, and found Zeus baying at the corner of Brook Street and Avery Row. He was standing at the servant's entrance to a stately manor made of red brick. It was not as large as the Dubois residence, but it was still a good size. Probably belonged to a viscount or a baron.

"Zeus, _au pied_," Samson commanded. _Heel_.

Instantly, Zeus went quiet and trotted over to sit next to Samson. They waited together until Gregoire came into view, followed closely by the carriage that held the rest of the Dubois family. Montford moved around from behind the carriage and slid down from his saddle alongside Greg.

Greg walked up to stand beside Samson, and stared up at the side of the house with his hands on his hips.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, more to himself than to Samson and Montford.

"You know who lives here?" Samson asked, frowning.

Greg nodded. "The queen of harpies," he said with a sigh. "Baroness Bennington." He exchanged an unhappy glance with Montford.

"Bollocks," Montford muttered.

"What have you found?" Philippe demanded, jumping down from the carriage before the footman had a chance to lower the stairs.

"Zeus tracked the scent to Bennington House," Greg replied. "The servant entrance."

Philippe nodded, face grim. "That's how they would have brought Helena and Abigail inside," he said, scanning the door through narrowed eyes. "There are no lights in the house," he noted, glancing over to Samson. "Break down the door."

"Wait!"

All four men whirled around to see a young boy running down the alley towards them. His clothes dwarfed him, and they were ragged and stained with soot, but his shoes and coat were new, and his eyes were bright and big. He couldn't have been more than five.

At Samson's side, Zeus whined softly.

"Please, milord, come wif me!" the boy said to Samson, breathing heavily, as if he had just run a great distance.

Samson exchanged glances with Philippe.

"It could be a trap," the viscount said quietly.

"It could be, but I do not think it is," Samson said with a frown. "I'll go alone, just in case."

Greg shook his head. "No. I'm going with you."

Montford nodded. "As am I."

Samson sighed and stepped forward. The little boy glanced up at him, and took a step back, as if he'd suddenly realized just how big Samson was.

"My… milord," he said quietly. Samson knelt in front of him, and bowed his head so that he was at eye level with the child. Up close, he could see the panic in the boy's eyes.

"I am no lord, child," Samson replied gently. "My name is Samson."

The boy nodded, and swallowed nervously. "Samson, sir, me Da sent me to find you. 'E's right bad off, but 'e won't let me go for the surgeon until 'e speaks wif you."

"With me?" Samson asked.

The boy nodded. "'E said, 'go to Avery Row an' bring me the giant man, Jackie.' 'At's what he said, sir." The boy glanced around Samson, watching Zeus warily. "Is that a monster?" he whispered.

Samson smiled. "No, he is just a dog. He won't hurt you."

The boy did not look convinced. "'E's a right giant, too, in't he?" Then he shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He reached out and grabbed Samson's hand, pulling him forward. "Please hurry, sir."

Samson glanced over his shoulder. "Zeus, _à la maison_," he commanded. _Go home_.

Zeus whined in protest, then hung his head, turned around, and padded off in the direction he had come.

Samson let the boy lead him down the alley. He could hear Greg and Montford behind him, following at a safer distance, in case he was ambushed.

Samson couldn't help but marvel at the little boy's fearlessness, but he struck out into the darkness without pause, turning corners without hesitation.

Perhaps it was panic that made him brave.

Soon, he let go of Samson's hand and started running. Samson's legs were much longer than the boy's, so he needed only to quicken his pace. After several blocks, Samson sighed. His skin felt twitchy, and his mind constantly counted the seconds as they passed. He felt like he was watching time pour through his fingers like grains of sand.

"Jack," he said. The boy stopped and turned. "I can run very quickly."

The boy looked up at him, eyes wide and serious. "I believe you, sir."

"Do you think you could give me the directions to your father's location?"

The boy frowned. "Die-rick-shuns?"

Samson sighed, and knelt, turning his back to the boy.

"Hop on," he said.

Jack's eyes went wide, and then he nodded. He ran over and scrambled up onto Samson's back, wrapping his thin arms around Samson's neck. He peeked over Samson's shoulder, tightened his grip with his right arm, and pointed with his left.

"Straight ahead, an' left at the 'At shop," Jack said. Samson had to work the phrase over in his mind before he realized that the boy meant "Hat Shop."

Samson nodded. "Hang on," he said, and he started running.

Greg and Montford kept pace as Jack navigated them through progressively darker and dirtier alleyways. Soon, they were in the slums, where smoke and fog hung heavy in the streets, and the ground was wet and strewn with trash. The streets were not terribly busy, but at this time of night, the people on them were dirty, thin, and mostly drunk. A group of rowdy sailors stepped out of a tavern on the street corner ahead.

Samson was not concerned. As soon as the men caught sight of him, they quieted, and moved hastily to get out of his path.

A pickpocket's knife glinted in the darkness around a corner.

As soon as Samson approached, the knife disappeared, and someone muttered a hasty curse and sprinted away.

He had that affect on people.

Finally, Jack called Samson to a halt in front of an old, nameless, rundown tavern. Samson set the boy down, and followed him to the door, gesturing for Greg and Montford to remain downstairs to avoid frightening Jack's father away.

The walls were thin, and Samson could hear everything that was going on inside the building. The main floor was a bar. Jack ran hastily up to the second floor, and down to the end of the hallway. He opened the door slowly, then glanced over at Samson and waved him over.

As Samson approached, he gave Jack a handful of coins. He could already smell the blood in the room. "Go get the surgeon," he whispered.

Jack turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Samson opened the door and stepped into the room.

The man sitting in the chair by the window was large, compared to most. Small, compared to Samson.

Samson caught movement from the corner of his eye. He glanced over, and saw two boys sitting quietly in the corner, eyes wide. Jack's brothers. They looked pale and frightened.

When Samson got closer to the man, he understood why.

He was covered in blood, his skin was ashen, and he had both hands pressed tight over his stomach. His eyes were half-closed, and glazed with pain. He had short black hair, and though his clothes were baggy, he had a solid frame. He had most likely been a mill worker, woodsman, or logger, before he came to London.

Samson knelt by the chair. "Who are you?" he asked softly.

The man jumped, and his eyes snapped open. He took a shaky breath, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Me name is 'Enry," he said, his voice weak and hoarse. "I was 'ired by a man called Jack to help 'im kidnap the ladies." He groaned, and his head dropped back against the chair. "Bloody bastard shot Alfred dead an' then came at me wif a knife." He lifted his hands from his stomach.

Samson glanced down and saw the wound, a deep gash in the center of his torso that wept dark, thick blood.

He did not have to be a surgeon to know that the wound was fatal.

When he looked back up at Henry, he found the man's eyes steady and calm, looking right at him. "I know what I did was wrong," he whispered, as silent tears slipped down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the grime on his face. "I know that. An' I know that 'elping you now don't absolve me of nothing. But I had to try, once I realized." He closed his eyes, and took several shallow, quick breaths. "Sam!"

The older boy stood from the corner of the room and walked over, watching Samson with empty, tired eyes.

"Tell 'im, Sam," Henry ordered. "Tell 'im 'bout the lady."

Sam reached into the pocket of his jacket, a surprisingly well-made coat that was several sizes too big for him, and pulled a small white rectangle from it, which had been dented and worn from constant use. He handed it over to Samson with a trembling hand.

Samson took the card gently from the child and flipped it over, and then he nearly dropped it when he realized what it was.

In elegantly curling letters, embossed on thick, smooth vellum, was a name:

_Lady Helena Dubois._

"_Mon Dieu_," Samson whispered. His heart was being squeezed by an iron fist, a vicious pain that would not abate until he had her in his arms again.

"Tell 'im, Sam!" Henry repeated, his voice growing desperate.

The boy, Sam, who looked to be about eight or nine years old, jumped. "Yes, sir," he said, and he turned to Samson. "It were… how long, Da?"

"Four months," Henry murmured.

"Right, it were four months ago, an' this dog, it stole Mickey's meat pie, and so we chased it, we did. And then the lady saw us, and she made us leave 'im alone, and she gave us her purse, wif enough money to buy food for weeks, enough even to buy us new shoes and coats. She were right lovely, as pretty as an angel. Da could 'ardly believe it when we told 'im, thought we'd pinched the money; he made us show 'im the card what was in the lady's purse." Sam nodded towards the calling card. "Da said it were a blessing."

Henry nodded, drawing Samson's gaze back to him. His skin was growing paler, and his face glistened with sweat. "It's been a tough time, since the boys' mum died. I been out of work since winter, an' came to London hoping to get a job in a mill, but I couldn't find anyfing, and my boys was starving. That lady saved them, I know it." He paused, and took a shuddering breath. "An' then, 'bout a fortnight ago, this man, Jack, 'e comes to me an' offers me two pounds - _two pounds sterling!_ - to help 'im out! Just some 'eavy lifting, he said. I swear to you, sir, I did not know what the dirty bastard were plannin'." He closed his eyes, and his voice dropped down to a whisper. "When I found out who it was 'e was takin' - you see, I don't read, but I had a friend of mine tell me the name on that card, there - and when I realized who she was..." his words were cut off when he started coughing, suddenly, and violently. Samson frowned when he saw specks of blood on Henry's lips.

"Sam, take Mickey outside," Henry ordered, his voice choked and ragged.

The boy glanced between them, and slowly turned and gestured for his brother to join him in the hallway. When the door closed, Samson turned back to Henry.

"Relax," Samson said gently. "The surgeon is on his way."

Henry shook his head, and then he laughed, weakly and humorlessly. "Ain't nothin' no surgeon can fix," he whispered. "I'm done for."

Samson opened his mouth to protest, and was silenced by a wave of Henry's hand.

"I got to set this right," he said, and though his voice was ragged and his face was white, he was determined. "They took the ladies to Temple Gardens, to the pier. I heard 'im talking 'bout a ship."

Samson nodded, and a part of him breathed a deep, heavy sigh of relief. He knew where to go. Finally, he would be able to do something. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Henry reached out with one bloodstained hand and grabbed a fistful of Samson's shirt. "Please," he whispered brokenly, tears pouring from his eyes. "Please take care of my boys. Please, milord." He sobbed. "Don't let them end up like me."

Samson's heart cried out, and his throat went tight. "I will take care of them," he said quietly. "I give you my word."

Henry took a deep, trembling breath, and his eyes slid closed.

His hand fell from Samson's shirt.

Samson stood, moving swiftly. In the distance, the church bells chimed the eleventh hour; he did not have much time.

He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. The two boys, Sam and Mickey, stood at the end of the hallway, watching him silently.

"Your father is dead," he said gently.

Sam nodded, unsurprised. He had his hands over Mickey's ears.

Children grew up very quickly on the streets.

Samson sighed. "Stay out here until your brother arrives with the surgeon, and then take Jack and Mickey with you to Grosvenor Square, near Hyde Park. Wait for me there."

Sam stared at him with those hollow, haunted eyes. "Why should I trust you?" he asked in a toneless voice.

"You don't have to," Samson said honestly. "But I gave your father my word that I would look after you. And I do not break my promises."

He could not waste any more time. He had to go. He had to get to Helena. Every second that passed was like agony, like standing on hot coals, like being chained down, and caged in, when all he wanted to do was run.

He turned and hurried down the stairs, brushing past Gregoire and Montford and leading them through the loud, dimly lit bar and out into the dark, quiet street.

"They are at the Temple Garden Pier, several miles south of here," he said quickly. "I can get there in time, but only if I run."

Greg nodded. "Go," he said, "we will follow on horseback."

Samson turned and paused when Greg called his name. He glanced back at Lena's brother.

"Be careful."

Samson nodded.

Then he started running.

And this time, he didn't hold back.

The streets faded into a blur, as he finally unleashed the energy that had been burning through his body all evening. He ignored the cries and shouts from passersby. He ignored the eyes that followed him in the darkness, and the bodies that scurried to get out of his path. He was unstoppable, he was a force of nature, and he would not rest until he saw Lena safe and in his arms.

He scaled the wrought iron gate at the entrance of the Temple Gardens in a heartbeat, dropping into the grass and scanning the garden with bright, determined eyes. He was barely winded.

And he was making far too much noise.

He kicked off his boots and took off across the manicured lawns, dodging trees and fountains and statuaries, avoiding gravel and stone paths, as he moved more silently on the grass.

When he reached the edge of the park that bordered the river, he halted in the shadow of a large oak tree. The pier, like the rest of the garden, was closed, and appeared abandoned.

Except for the ship that was docked at the far end, dimly lit with a handful of lanterns and torches.

A set of stairs stretched from the edge of the gardens down to the pier, and then a second set of stairs branched off the side of the pier to lead directly down to the banks of the Thames. The tide was going out, but it was still rather high. There was no movement on either staircase.

The moon was out and full, and it lit the world around him as brightly as if it were midday. He had always been able to see unnaturally well in the dark.

He waited as long as he could, hoping he was giving the Dubois family enough time to get through the gate. His blood was pounding hard and fast through his body, and his hands twitched impatiently.

Finally, he took a deep breath and moved forward, silent and swift, padding across the grass and down the stone stairs. When his feet touched wood, he slowed his pace, careful not to step on any loose boards or raised nails.

_So close_, his mind screamed, as he got to the halfway point along the pier. _So close to getting her back. So close to ending this nightmare!_

Movement caught his eye. He froze. The ship was only fifteen or twenty feet away, bobbing lazily in the calm river current.

So when Lena stepped up on deck, he saw her instantly.

"Helena," he whispered. He felt the air rush from his lungs, and his throat went painfully tight. The sight of her alive and unharmed filled him with a joy so intense and powerful that he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

Then, someone else appeared on the deck. A young woman with dark hair and pale eyes. Samson recognized her from somewhere, but he could not immediately place the memory.

Lena was watching Samson with a sad, sweet smile on her face. Samson met her gaze, and was overwhelmed by the emotions that crashed through him, at the weakness and strength that battled for victory in his body, at the fire and ice that simultaneously raged through his blood.

_I love you, Helena_, he thought desperately. _I love you more than life itself. I will go to the ends of the Earth for you. I will do anything for you._

_I am yours._

Then the brunette stepped up behind Lena, wrapped one arm around his love's neck and casually pressed a gun to her temple.

Time stopped.

"Hello, my dear," the woman said, her voice soft, her pale eyes bright and wide. "We have been waiting for you."


	25. Darkness

_Author's Note: Surprise double post! :) Enjoy, and for the love of all that is holy, review. Even if it's just something simple like, "nice" or "hated it," I still enjoy hearing what you think about the story. I mean, damn, this is pretty much the only platform in which a writer can get direct, immediate feedback about their work, isn't it? Haven't you ever finished a book and been like, "I wish I could tell this chick how awesome/horrible/ridiculous/amazeballs her book was, and be absolutely certain that she got my feedback."? _

_I don't even know if that's the right punctuation for that incredibly awkward sentence, but still. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN._

* * *

**HELENA**

He was here.

He was actually, physically here.

Her companion stood fifteen feet from the ship, frozen in place, glowing in the light of the lamps and torches.

Lena could not take her eyes off him.

Even from a distance, she could see the patchwork of scars and skin that covered his face and arms. She could see the muscles that bulged beneath his dark clothes. She could see the bright, golden glow of his eyes.

She could see the truth of him.

In that moment, Helena became instantly aware of two very important things.

The first was that her companion was not entirely, in the strictest sense of the word, human.

And the second was that she didn't care.

He was beautiful. Everything about him was beautiful. His face, his eyes, his body, everything.

He was magnificent.

He was mesmerizing.

_I love you,_ she thought fiercely. _I love you more than life. More than anything. I love you._

_I am yours. _

"He has come to me," Lilith whispered behind her, voice filled with joy and disbelief. The gun trembled in her hand. "He has come to watch you die."

"No, Lilith," Lena replied quietly. "That is not why he has come."

"Silence, fool," Lilith snarled.

From the dock, Lena's companion tensed. Lilith sighed.

"I am your mate, not _her_," Lilith said to him, her tone patient and sweet. "I am the one you prayed for, the one you begged your father to create. I am Lilith."

He blinked, but his gaze remained intense and unwavering, and did not stray once from Lena.

"How do you know about my father?" he asked, his voice soft and deep.

"I was there," Lilith replied. "I followed you to him."

He frowned. "If you followed me, then you know that he destroyed the one he was creating to be my mate."

"Yes," Lilith said with a shrug. "It does not matter. I was created long before that. I am your mate. I am the one you prayed for." She sighed. "I have followed you for so very long."

"And what is it that you want, Lilith?" he asked gently.

Lilith sucked in a sharp breath, and tightened her grip around Lena's throat.

"_You_," she said. "I want you! Come with me, and we will leave this wretched world, and these wretched people. We can start anew, in a place where we do not have to fear the censure of others."

"Where might that be?" he wondered, taking a few slow, careful steps closer.

Lilith pushed Lena forward, to the edge of the ship's railing. "Anywhere," she said eagerly. Lena could see Lilith's grip on the gun loosening as she spoke. "We can go to Africa, or perhaps to India, or America. We can go anywhere the wind takes us, and there we will live together, in paradise, for the rest of our days."

He took another step, further closing the distance between them. He was only eight or ten feet away, now. Almost within reach of the ship. He still had not taken his eyes from Lena's. The closer he got, the faster her heart began to beat, and the faster her breaths came.

_So close. So achingly close_.

"That's it? You just want me to come with you?" he asked.

"Yes," Lilith whispered.

"Then why did you kidnap Helena?"

Lilith's grip on the gun tightened. "Because she is your weakness," she said patiently. "You believe yourself to be in love with her, and you will not be able to give your heart to me while she still lives." She chuckled, and a whisper of condescension entered her voice. "You _do_ realize that I'm doing you a favor by getting rid of her, don't you? You could never be happy together."

His eyes narrowed, but they still did not move from Lena. She shook her head, very slightly.

_Don't do anything rash_, she begged him silently. _Don't let her get to you._

"Why is that, Lilith?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

"Because her family would _never_ approve of you. She is highborn, and her kind are all the same; one day, she will marry an Earl or a Duke, and leave you behind forever."

"I highly doubt that," came a calm, regal voice from below the dock. Lilith sucked in a sharp breath and pointed the gun towards the stairs that led down to the water's edge.

Lena felt her heart jump into her throat.

_Oh, dear God, no._ She tore her gaze from her companion, and stared down into the darkness below the dock, praying that she hadn't heard true. She twisted her wrists together, trying to loosen the rope that bound them.

_No, please, no._

Her mother walked up the stairs and stepped onto the dock, ignoring the pistol trained on her, and moved to stand beside Lena's companion.

"My daughter would never marry an Englishman," Regina said calmly. "She does not care for London at all."

"_Maman_," Lena said, but Lilith yanked her arm tighter, choking off Lena's words.

"Lady Dubois," Lilith said through gritted teeth. "I see you have come to watch your daughter die." She lifted the gun and pressed it against the side of Lena's head.

"No, I have not." Regina glanced over her shoulder, and Lena watched as her father, her brother, and her little sister stepped up onto the dock and joined Regina. Lena couldn't believe her eyes. They all moved forward to stand next to her companion, one singular unit, watching Lilith with steady, stoic faces. "And by the way," Regina said casually, "we do approve of Samson."

_Samson_? Lena's gaze met her companion's, and he nodded, just once.

So he did have a name after all.

"You approve of him?" Lilith sneered. "You don't know _anything_ about him. He's not even human."

Regina glanced up at Samson. "He looks perfectly human to me."

Samson stepped forward. "Release Helena and Abigail, Lilith," he said softly, "and I will come with you. I will stay with you for the rest of our lives. I swear it."

Lilith gasped softly. Lena felt the barrel of the pistol drift away from her skin. "Jack," she called, "bring the other one out."

Lena heard footsteps as Jack led Abby up onto the deck. Lena could not turn to see them, as Lilith still had her arm wrapped tightly around Lena's neck.

"I will give you Abigail," Lilith said excitedly. "But I'm afraid I must kill Helena."

_Insane. She's absolutely insane._

Samson opened his mouth to speak, but then Regina stepped forward and put her hand on his arm.

"If you must kill a Dubois, let it be me," she said firmly. "I will die in my daughter's place."

Silence descended, and for a long moment, the only sound was the quiet whisper of the water against the hull of the ship.

Lena closed her eyes, shaking her head. _No, Maman. I will not let that happen._

"No," Lena's father said sharply. He stepped forward, pushing Margot behind Samson for protection. "Take me, baroness. I will die for Helena."

"No, take me," Gregoire said angrily, stepping in front of his father. "I was at the river, too. You can still have one of us. Just not her. Please."

Lilith's grip tightened around Lena's throat. Spots began to dance across her vision.

"Look at them," Lilith whispered sadly. "They would give their lives for you. I was never protected like this." She sniffled, and Lena realized suddenly that Lilith was crying. "I have never known this kind of love."

"I am sorry, Lilith," Lena said softly. And she truly was.

No one deserved life without love.

Then Lena heard something, something very faint and vaguely familiar, something that made a chill run down her spine. She glanced up, and saw that her family was no longer watching her and Lilith; their eyes were trained on a spot behind them.

Except for Samson. He was still looking at Lena with that bright, steady gaze.

_Footsteps in the darkness_, she thought suddenly.

That was what she heard. It sounded familiar because she had listened for that sound every night since she had first met Samson.

Someone had boarded the ship, to neutralize the second threat.

From the dock, Samson smiled.

Lena moved before she could think, before she had any time to hesitate or tense up. She reached up with both hands, still tied at the wrists, and slammed the barrel of Lilith's gun upwards as hard as she could. At the same time, she let her legs go limp, and she became dead weight. Lilith's arm squeezed harder around her neck, trying to hold her up, but as strong as Lilith was, she could not support Lena's full weight with just one arm. She fell alongside Lena, and when her head hit the deck, her grip finally failed.

Lena caught flashes of movement behind her, and started to get up, but her legs tangled in the fabric of her dress, and before she could stand, she heard Lilith snarl and felt a body crash into her from behind.

Lena flew forward, stumbled, and tried to catch herself on the railing of the ship. Her head slammed against something, hard, and she cursed as stars glittered in her eyes and pain exploded inside her head.

The sound of fighting seemed to come from everywhere around them, but that was mostly due to her confusion. Through blurry eyes, she could see someone struggling with Jack on the other side of the ship, and Abby leaning against the mast, trying to free the ropes from around her wrists.

Lena shook her head, forcing back the pain, gritting her teeth against the bruises. She managed to get the world to stop spinning around her just in time to see Lilith's bright, furious blue eyes come into focus. Her teeth were bared in a wild, feral grin. She reached out and grabbed a handful of Lena's hair and yanked her closer, lifting the gun in her other hand.

Lena curled both hands into fists and slammed them as hard as she could into Lilith's stomach.

Lilith gasped, and dropped the gun.

They both froze, and watched the gun spin to a stop just beyond their reach.

They went for it simultaneously, but Lilith was faster.

Lena felt her heart beating wildly in her chest.

Lilith reached down for the gun.

_Stop her!_ Lena's mind screamed, overwhelming her with panic and adrenaline. _Stop her! You have to stop her!_

Lena forced her body into action. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the screaming pain in her head, ignoring the cuts and splinters in her skin, ignoring the stray curls that flew in her face, and she did the only thing she could think of.

She ran straight towards Lilith.

Time slowed.

Lilith picked up the gun.

Lena bent down and slammed her shoulder into Lilith's midsection, as hard as she could.

A gunshot echoed around them, fierce and deafening.

Lena did not stop. She did not hesitate. She pushed upwards, lifting Lilith off the deck, and jumped.

Together they went over the ship's railing, and fell into the darkness.


	26. Awaken

_Author's Note: I didn't actually intend to wait quite so long to upload this chapter, but I got sidetracked by another project. Sorry!_

_Enjoy, my friends. As always, my beta is awesome, and reviews are always welcomed._

* * *

**SAMSON**

As Samson watched the nightmare unfold before him, it felt like time slowed to a crawl. His vision tunneled, and the world beyond the ship disappeared.

Montford reached Jack at the same exact moment that Lena hit the gun out of Lilith's hands.

Movement exploded on the deck, and Samson felt his body flood with fire, seething beneath his skin, vicious and electric, urging him towards the ship, overwhelming him with the desire to move_._

To fight.

To _kill_.

He backed up several steps.

"Stay here," he commanded, sending the Dubois family - Regina and Margot in particular - a stern frown.

Then he ran forward, covering the length of the dock in three great strides. When he reached the end of the dock, he jumped as high as he could, slamming in to the side of the ship with a grunt. His hands just barely managed to grab the bottom rung of the ship's railing. He pulled himself up and over, and straightened. Abby was leaning against the mast, furious but unharmed, cursing under her breath as she tried to loosen the bonds around her wrists.

Montford and Lilith's servant, whose name Samson could not recall, were locked in a fierce, violent struggle. Samson moved quickly across the deck, wrapped one hand around the servant's neck, and tossed him backwards, away from Montford. The servant landed on a pile of rope in an unconscious heap.

Satisfied that one threat was dealt with, Samson turned, just in time to see Lilith grab the gun from the deck.

Just in time to watch Helena run straight into Lilith and push her over the ship's railing.

A gunshot echoed across the water. Harsh. Stark. Visceral.

The sound of death.

He did not think. He did not hesitate. He crossed the deck in the space of one heartbeat and vaulted over the railing.

He hit the water just as Lena's body slipped beneath the inky black surface.

And he was back in the Bordeaux again, in harsh, bitterly cold rapids, watching her sink down into the darkness. Watching the sole source of life and beauty and color disappear from the world, leaving it empty and barren. Meaningless.

Without her, life was meaningless.

Panic gripped him, fierce and overwhelming, an iron fist squeezing his heart. He reached out for her, grabbing her bound wrists, pulling her up towards the surface.

Her skin was cold. Lifeless. He slid one arm around her waist and lifted her head out of the water. Her pale hair was plastered against her face and neck, and her skin was white.

_No, _he begged. _Please, God. Do not take her from me._

"Open your eyes, Helena," he whispered, cupping her face with one hand. "Please, my love. Open your eyes."

His entire world was in the balance. His entire existence. Nothing mattered anymore.

They were surrounded by darkness, a hungry abyss that hunted them, stalking them from the shadows, watching for the perfect moment to strike. To take her from him. To destroy them both.

_I will not let you go,_ he swore silently._ I will never let you go._

He pulled her closer, until he could feel her breath fluttering against his cheek. Her heart beat a steady rhythm against his chest.

"_Helena, ma cherie, reveille,_" he said quietly, touching his forehead to hers and brushing his thumb gently across her cheek._ "S'il te plaît, reveille._"

_My darling, wake up. Please, wake up._

Her eyelids fluttered. She sucked in an unsteady breath. Her eyes slid open, and her lips curled in a weak, weary smile.

"_Suis-je au paradis_?" she wondered, tilting her head back to look at him._ Am I in Heaven?_

"No, my love, you are in the Thames," Samson replied with a shaky laugh.

"But my angel is here," she whispered, lifting her hands out of the water to touch his face. Her fingers were cool as they slid along his scars, brushing over his jawline, ghosting over his lips. Her touch calmed him down to his very soul, a soothing balm that healed the fierce, ragged panic that had consumed him for the past several hours. Her eyes widened, as the confusion brought on by her loss of consciousness began to fade. "You're really here," she said with a smile.

"I gave you my word," he replied, his voice rough with unshed tears. _Nothing will keep me away from you tonight._ "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head slowly, peering up at him through the darkness.

"Thank God," he rasped, pulling her tight against him. He let himself relax, and the vice around his heart began to loosen. She was whole. She was safe.

She was his.

He kissed her, and he felt her smile against his lips. Heat flooded his body. Pleasure slid over his skin like silk. The world faded, the darkness faded, and for a brief moment, it was just the two of them.

They were the only people in the entire world. In the entire universe.

He lifted his head, and found her watching him with those pale, clever eyes.

"Samson?" she asked. He sucked in a sharp breath as desire seared him from head to toe. Hearing her voice… hearing her say his name… it was entrancing. Intoxicating.

"Do you like it?" he murmured.

She narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head. "Hmm. Samson," she said thoughtfully. A chill slid down his spine, and he closed his eyes. She leaned closer and placed a quick, playful kiss on his lips. "My Samson," she whispered.

He growled softly, and his arms tightened around her.

Voices carried to them over the water, invading the silent reunion, shouting and cursing in both French and English, their words mingling together in an incomprehensible jumble. Samson sighed and glanced up, to see Abby silhouetted against the light of the ship.

"_Est-elle vivante_?!" Abby demanded, her voice cutting through the storm of words coming from the dock. _Is she alive?_

"_Elle est vivante et bien_," Samson replied. _She is alive and well._

Abigail disappeared, and shouted something back to the crowd. Samson lifted Lena higher in his arms so that the gentle waves would not wash over her head as he swam around the prow of the ship. As soon as they came within sight, a cheer rose up from the small group on the dock. Gregoire and his father hurried down the stairs that led to the water's edge, and jumped into the shallows, wading towards Samson and Lena.

Samson gained his footing in the rocky sand of the riverbank about twenty feet out and stood, lifting Lena into his arms, one arm beneath her knees, and one behind her shoulders. She was silent as she hooked her arms, still bound by rope, around his neck. Her eyes were open, and she did not appear to be disoriented. Her gaze did not waver from him once.

"_Helena, ma fille chérie_," Philippe said, his voice breaking as he reached out and brushed wet hair from his daughter's pale forehead. "_Dieu merci, tu es en sécurité._"

_My darling daughter, thank God you're safe._

"She wasn't hit?" Gregoire demanded, reaching out and pulling Lena's hands from around Samson's neck, pressing his fingers to her wrist to check her pulse. Samson allowed this; he could see how shaken Greg was, and he could hear it in the young man's voice. "Are you sure she wasn't hit?"

"I am sure of it, my lord," Samson said calmly. There was no blood on her. He would have smelled it.

"Good. Excellent. Well, then, let's get these ropes off you," Greg muttered, pulling a small knife from his pocket and carefully severing the ropes that bound Lena's wrists. Then he took Lena's hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. In the darkness, only Samson could see the tears on Greg's cheeks, just as he was the only one who could see them glittering in the Viscount's eyes. Both men were standing very close, closer than anyone had ever been to him, other than Lena. Yet he did not feel caged in or cornered. He felt… supported.

Strengthened.

"Thank God for you, Samson," Greg said, reaching up and putting a hand on Samson's shoulder. He paused, and then added, "but don't you ever call me 'my lord' again, brother."

Lena laughed softly. All three men looked at her, and all three smiled.

"Told you he was real," she whispered.

Greg grinned, then turned away abruptly and coughed, rubbing at his eyes.

"Get out of that water immediately, all of you!" Regina commanded from above them. "And bring me my daughter!"

Samson glanced up at the dock just as Abigail stepped off the gangplank. She was instantly swept up into Montford's arms. Regina and Margot stood side-by-side with identical postures, arms on their hips, backs straight and shoulders squared as they waited for Regina's orders to be followed. Samson smiled and followed Greg and the Viscount to the stairs.

His clothes were ruined, but he just couldn't find it in himself to be upset about that.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking, you know," Lena said, her voice soft and playful.

Samson's grip on her tightened instinctively, and he raised his eyebrows.

"I'll be the judge of that." He wasn't ready to give her up yet.

He would never willingly give her up again.

Regina met them at the top of the stairs, calm and collected, giving Lena a cursory once over to check for wounds. When she was satisfied that her daughter was unhurt, she placed a gentle kiss on Lena's forehead.

"My baby girl," she whispered, touching her nose to Lena's. Samson's heart cried out at the quiet pain he saw in Regina's eyes. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

"I will do my best, _Maman_," Lena replied with a smile.

"My lord!" someone called from the dock. Philippe turned and one of the Dubois footmen came running down off the ship, "I think you'll want to see this."

Philippe exchanged glances with Greg, and they both turned and started for the ship. Montford reluctantly released Abby from his arms and followed them up the gangplank. Abby walked over to stand next to Regina with a bright smile on her face.

"Come, let's get you in the carriage," Regina said to Lena, glancing up at Samson with a nod. Margot sent Samson a huge smile over her shoulder and fell into step beside her mother. He followed them up the dock, across the lawn, and a short distance down a wide path that cut through the gardens. Two footmen waited by the carriage, and both jumped to attention and moved forward to help Regina, Margot, and Abby inside. When one of the men stepped up to take Lena from Samson's arms, he gave the man a chilling stare. The footman immediately backed away with a murmured apology.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, stop trying to intimidate Robert for a moment and put me down," Lena said with a weak laugh. "I'll be fine."

Samson looked down at her and clenched his jaw. "I don't want to let you go," he said quietly.

Lena opened her mouth to speak, and then paused, and smiled. She slid one hand up to gently cup his cheek.

"I know," she said quietly. "But it will just be for a little while."

Still, he hesitated.

"Don't worry, Samson," Margot said from the carriage. "It's just a few minutes' ride home."

"Yes, we will see you back at Dubois house shortly," Regina added.

Samson felt a smile tug at his lips. "Very well."

He set Lena down, and offered his hand to help her up into the carriage.

When she put her hand in his, she sent him a warm smile, full of unspoken promises. She stepped inside the carriage and hesitated, as if unwilling to break that small physical contact.

He knew exactly how she felt.

"I should see if your father needs assistance," Samson said mournfully. Every instinct screamed at him to not let Lena out of his sight.

Lena sighed and released his hand. "You should," she agreed.

"I will have Eleanor prepare a guest room for you," Regina said, giving Samson a regal nod. "We have much to discuss."

Samson blinked at her. Then he smiled, and nodded, and stepped back so that the footman could close the door and vault up onto the bench and grab the reins.

He watched the carriage roll out of sight, and turned back to the dock. Two more Dubois footmen were standing by the gangplank, talking between themselves. Samson nodded to them.

"Keep a sharp eye out," he said in a low voice. "She may have survived."

"Aye, sir," the eldest footman, Peter, replied with a nod. Then he hesitated, and cleared his throat. "What you did, jumping in after Lady Helena, that was good of you, sir."

"I would suffer much worse than that, for her," Samson replied.

Peter grinned, and the younger footman next to him chuckled.

Samson made his way up the gangplank, glancing over at the man who had held Abby captive. He was bound, hand and foot, and sat calmly on a wooden crate, watching Samson with keen, pale eyes.

Eyes that reflected luminescent green in the torchlight.

Samson sighed, and followed the steps down into the belly of the ship. He would deal with Lilith's henchman later.

He followed the sound of the Viscount's voice to a large storage room near the bow, and found the Viscount and his son standing in the doorway.

"Ah, there you are," Greg said when Samson came into view. "Have a look; it would appear that the baroness intended to take all of her worldly treasures with her."

He was right. The entire room was filled with fine furniture, jewels, swaths of rich silk, trunks of clothing, and several lockboxes full of banknotes. Samson glanced around, eyebrows raised. It was a treasure trove, enough wealth to support someone in great comfort for the rest of their days.

"Impressive," he noted.

"I'm sure Lord Bennington will be pleased to see this fortune returned to him," Philippe said with a smirk.

Montford appeared at the other end of the hallway. "I think he's more pleased to be alive, at the moment." He pointed towards the room he'd just stepped out of, and a short, balding man appeared in the doorway, rubbing his wrists. "I found him bound and gagged in a service closet. He believes his wife intended to shoot him and dump his body in the Channel."

The baron nodded to each man in turn, eyes hollow and weary. "I understand I have the four of you to thank for saving my life," he said in a quiet voice. He seemed… beaten. Haunted.

Samson imagined that was probably due to the fact that he'd been living with a psychotic murderer for a number of years.

"Samson found the ship," Greg said with a shrug. "Samson saved Helena and Abigail." He grinned up at Samson. "I'd say you're the hero of the hour, my friend."

Baron Bennington bowed politely to Samson. "Thank you, sir."

Samson nodded. Hero or not, he was still uncomfortable being seen by others.

Bennington turned his gaze to Philippe. "Now, what's this you said about a fortune, Dubois?"

Philippe stepped aside and gestured for the baron to view the contents of the storage room. The baron edged forward, glanced about the room, and stepped back with a disgusted sigh.

"All hers," he said with a curl of his lip. "I'll have none of it."

Greg blinked at him. "You don't want… _any_ of it?"

The baron shook his head. His expression was dark, and his eyes narrow. "She tormented me from the moment we were wed. She made my life hell. She was going to kill me. I want nothing more to do with that bitch."

The Dubois men exchanged glances, but no one seemed very surprised.

"Donate it to charity," Montford suggested.

"Certainly," the baron replied with a shrug. "Or burn it. Or toss it in the Thames. I don't care. Do with it what you will. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some personal matters to attend to. Good evening, gentlemen." And with that, he turned and made his way up the stairs to the deck. His boots thumped over their heads and down the gangplank.

"Poor chap," Greg muttered.

"I'll have my secretary collect and inventory everything," Philippe said with a nod. "Shall we?"

Together, the four men returned to the deck of the ship. Lilith's henchman was still sitting where they had left him, watching Samson with those unusual eyes. Philippe and Montford stepped down off the ship, but Samson held back.

"That is the man named Jack?" he asked Greg.

Greg paused, and nodded. "I sent for a carriage to take him to Millbank, it should be here within the hour."

"I would like to speak with him, if you don't mind," Samson said quietly. Greg raised one eyebrow, and then shrugged.

"Go right ahead." He turned and made his way down the gangplank, leaving Samson alone with Jack.

They watched each other for a long moment in tense silence.

"You shot Viscount Stanford dead?" Samson demanded.

Jack nodded.

"You shot a man named Alfred dead?"

Jack nodded.

"But you did not kill Henry outright."

Jack blinked, and then he nodded.

"Why?"

Jack stared at him, silent and unmoving, head slightly tilted.

After a minute or two, he glanced over at his jacket, which lay across the wooden railing. "Left pocket," he said, his voice soft.

Samson walked over and picked up the jacket, sifting through the folds of fabric until he found the pocket Jack spoke of.

He pulled out a small paper bag, unfolded it, and dumped its contents into his palm.

A handful of small white balls rolled into his hand. They were perfectly formed, and smooth. Samson picked one of them up, and crushed it easily between his forefinger and thumb.

"Wax," he murmured, surprised.

"Lilith's gun was loaded with a blank," Jack said tonelessly.

Samson tensed, and his gaze shot up to meet Jack's. "So she is still alive."

Jack nodded, his eyes solemn. "Most likely, yes."

"Why?" Samson demanded.

Jack's eyes glinted in the light, and his jaw clenched. "She created me," he said in a flat, toneless voice. "She brought me to life. She was my God. I have done so many things for her…" he trailed off, and then sighed. "Horrible things. But always… and only… to horrible people." He stood from the rope pile, and met Samson's gaze steadily. "I could not do this. I could not let her kill an innocent woman."

He stood. He was taller than most men, but not as tall as Samson.

"If she is still alive, she will go to the place where she is most comfortable," Jack said. "She will go to the forest. Hyde Park."

"Thank you," Samson said with a nod.

"In return, I ask only that you do not try to stop me," Jack said gently, lifting his bound hands up, to his face. Something glittered in the dim light. Something sharp. "I am done with this life," he murmured.

He slid the razor blade across his neck. Blood gushed from the wound, pouring down over his hands, soaking into his shirt.

Samson started to take a step forward, reaching for him. And then he paused, and stepped back.

Jack nodded, just once, in silent thanks. He fell to his knees. His eyes slid closed.

His body slumped backwards to the floor, silent and unmoving.

Samson leaned down and placed a small ha'penny over each of Jack's closed eyes.

"I do not know if the Ferryman will take our kind across the river," Samson said, his voice soft, "but if he does, I hope you find peace there, brother."

Then he stood, and lifted his gaze to the eastern horizon, where the pale, ghostly light of dawn crept slowly across the sky.

He turned, and stepped down off the ship, crossing the dock and making his way towards the path where Greg and Montford waited in their saddles. The viscount stood beside his horse, watching Samson approach.

"Jack?" Greg asked.

"Dead," Samson replied hesitantly. "He had a blade hidden in his sleeve."

They did not seem surprised. Samson frowned, confused.

"It's a common tactic among spies," Greg explained. "Often, they… do not wish to be taken alive."

Samson nodded, and turned to Philippe. "If she survived, I know where she will be," Samson said quietly. "I will go alone."

Philippe opened his mouth to protest, but Samson held up a hand.

"Please, my lord," he said. "This is something I must do."

Silence descended over the small group. All three men watched the viscount, to see what he would say.

Philippe sighed. "Very well," he said. He turned, and swung up into his saddle, glancing down at Samson with a frown. "But do me a favor, and take care of yourself; my daughter will skin me alive if you come to any harm."

Samson felt a smile tug at his lips. He nodded, and the three noblemen turned their horses and disappeared down the path that would take them through the gardens and out into London.

When they were completely out of sight, Samson turned and started running.


	27. Sunrise

****_Author's Note: Hello, loves! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I know you will, WulfLuvr22. :) As always, my beta is my saving grace. Thank you, Kim!_

* * *

**HELENA**

The carriage ride was quiet. Lena spent most of it with her eyes closed, as she worked to recall his face in her mind. Skin, scars, dark hair and bright eyes.

He was not handsome, not in the conventional sense of the word.

But, God, he was breathtaking. Like a magnificent sculpture, a masterpiece shattered by unthinking hatred and then painstakingly put back together. Each individual piece was, on it's own, unexceptional and discordant; but together, as a whole, it was all the more beautiful and exquisite for the tragedy it had survived.

He was magnificent. He was incredible. He was a miracle.

_His name is Samson_.

She remembered the night he had first let her touch him, when he had begged her to be kind. When he had run away from her affection, certain that she would reject him.

She remembered his clever insights, and his biting humor. She remembered the first time she heard a smile in his voice, and wondered what it looked like on his lips. Her quiet, intelligent companion. Her angel.

She had so many questions for him. She couldn't wait to be alone with him again, to see him, and speak with him, and touch him, and kiss him. Her skin tingled, and a smile curled her lips. She couldn't wait.

The carriage stopped, and the footmen opened the door. Lena went first, stepping out into the cool night air with a sigh. Dubois house rose up before her, large and brightly lit and welcoming, even at such a late hour. She shivered, and wrapped her arms tightly around herself, wishing she still had her companion's - Samson's - body heat to warm her. Her dress was sopping wet, and completely ruined, and she left a trail of water droplets where she walked.

Abby stepped out beside her, and wrapped her arm around Lena's waist.

"Are you alright?" Abby asked quietly.

Lena smiled. "I'm fine," she replied, and then wrinkled her nose slightly. "But I smell like the river."

Abby laughed. "Yes, you do."

"Come along, girls," Regina said quickly, ushering her daughters and niece up the steps and into the house.

Gerald and Eleanor waited for them inside. When Eleanor saw Lena, pale and soaking wet, the housekeeper gasped and ran forward, pulling Lena into a tight hug. Lena grinned.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," Eleanor said, rubbing at her eyes. "We were just so worried."

Lena took Eleanor's hands and squeezed them gently. "Everything is fine, Eleanor," she said, her voice soft.

Eleanor nodded, and sniffled, and when she started hiccupping, Gerald stepped forward to take over, composed and calm as always.

"I have taken the liberty of ordering you a hot bath, my lady," he said quietly. "If you and Miss De Lacey will proceed upstairs, I will send Eleanor up with tea and toast directly."

Regina pulled a yawning Margot into her arms and placed a kiss on the top of her head. "I will put this little monster to bed, and meet you two in the library when you are ready," she said to Lena and Abby.

Lena nodded, and took Abby's hand. Together they walked up the large staircase and down the long hallway to Lena's rooms.

As soon as Abby shut the door behind her, she rounded on Lena with a smile.

"Tell me everything."

Lena laughed. She turned and walked into the dressing room, where a steaming bath awaited her in the large copper tub. Abby followed, helped her unlace the back of her day dress, and then stepped out of the room to grab a chair while Lena settled beneath the bubbles and let the heat work its magic. Abby set her little writing chair at the head of the tub and started pulling pins out of Lena's hair.

"When did you meet him?" she asked eagerly, pulling her cousin's hair out of its soggy bun.

Lena leaned her head back against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes. "When he pulled me out of the river."

Abby rolled her eyes. "Fair enough. And when did you meet him the _second_ time?"

Lena grinned. "August of last year."

"And was he charming?"

"Quite the opposite. He was absolutely feral." She could remember the anger in his voice, like a constant, low growl. It had lasted for weeks, before his bitterness and suspicion had begun to thaw.

"How romantic," Abby said with a sigh. Now it was Lena's turn to roll her eyes.

"Hand me the soap." She worked to clean the smell of the river from her skin, allowing her thoughts to wander. "He was so angry. So bitter. I thought perhaps he was an old enemy of Greg's, or Papa's. But he did not mention them, not once. We talked about so many things."

"Where did you meet him, Lena?"

Lena blushed. "In my bedroom." At Abby's giggle, Lena's eyes popped open and she frowned up at her cousin. "It's not what you think. We only talked."

"Of course," Abby said with a wink. "So you met and fell in love, correct?"

"Well, I suppose a part of me has always been in love with him. It's hard _not_ to love someone who saved your life."

"True. And your nightmares did not frighten him?"

Lena smiled. "I didn't have them. Not when he was around."

Abby thought for a moment. "Well, that makes sense. He was the one who saved you from the thing that caused the nightmares. His presence must have been very calming."

Lena nodded. She slid down beneath the surface of the water and worked the soap through her hair. When she surfaced, Abby handed her a towel and stepped out of the room again. Lena heard a bark, and Abby's laughter. She stood and dried herself, and pulled on her nightgown and robe.

When she walked out of the dressing room, Eleanor was setting the tea and toast down on Lena's vanity, and Abby was holding Zeus's collar to keep him from eating the toast straight off the silver tray. He licked desperately at the air, vainly attempting to taste the food from ten feet away.

Lena grinned and knelt on the ground and called him. Abby released his collar and he bounded over to her, sat down, and covered her hands and face with kisses.

"I missed you too, cabbage," she said with a laugh, rubbing the soft fur on the top of his head. She thanked Eleanor for the tea and poured two cups, handing one to Abby.

"So, has he asked you to marry him yet?" Abby asked, when Eleanor had left the room.

"No," Lena replied. Her heart tightened in her chest. This was the part of the conversation she had been dreading. "And I doubt he will."

Abby's eyes widened. "Why ever not?"

Lena sighed and pulled her brush through her hair, working the tangles out while Abby took a few bites of buttered toast. "He is not very… conventional."

Abby raised her eyebrows over her teacup. "I noticed."

Lena smiled. She wanted to see him. She wanted to see him so much it hurt. She wanted to be in his arms again. Memories flickered and danced in her mind, warming her through.

"And he is not very comfortable around people."

Abby nodded. "Well, he seemed rather comfortable with Greg and Jasper."

Lena grinned over at Abby. "Oh, he's Jasper, now, is he?"

Abby just laughed and nodded.

"Are you going to take a bath?" Lena asked.

Abby shook her head. "I'll wait. I'm not the one who took a swim in the Thames."

Lena sighed and put down her brush, pulling her wet hair into a loose bun at the base of her neck. She stood, and handed Zeus a piece of toast from the silver tray. "Let's go speak with my mother, then, shall we?"

Abby nodded, drained her teacup and stood. "What do you think she wants to talk about?"

Lena shrugged. "Samson, most likely." She blushed as she remembered the feel of his lips on hers, soft and warm and gentle. He was always so gentle.

She wasn't sure how much she was going to tell her mother, but knew she wouldn't be mentioning the fact that Samson's visits were always at night, alone, and in her bedroom.

Abby grinned. "Sounds like it should be a very interesting conversation."

**SAMSON**

The world was nothing but fog and shadows cast by the dim, blue-gray light of dawn. Samson made no sound as he walked through the park, searching tirelessly. He knew she was here; he could feel her presence, like a weight pressing down on his shoulders. He knew he would find her. It was only a matter of time.

He passed a copse of ancient, twisted oak trees, and the sharp smell of gunpowder hit him. He turned, and approached the tree line, watching for movement through the thick, gray haze. The world seemed distant and eerily silent. Dawn was approaching, steadily bringing more light into this sleepy, ephemeral world.

He found her there, curled up at the base of one of the old oaks, amid a tangle of roots that had crept up out of the soil. She was wet, and pale, but her eyes burned bright in the shadows.

"You saved her," she whispered, voice trembling.

"Yes."

"Why?" she whimpered.

Samson remained still, and when he spoke, his voice was calm and sure. "I love her."

"How could you love her and not me?" Lilith demanded, sobbing. "She is nothing like us! She is one of _them_. They scorned us, they beat us and cursed us and cast us out! They hate us!"

"There is no 'they', Lilith," he said simply. "Humans are not all the same."

The light faded from her eyes, and her shoulders fell. Her gaze drifted away from him, weary and solemn.

"They are to me," she whispered.

Samson did not respond. He knew he should pity the poor, broken soul before him, but he could not find it in him to do so. She had nearly killed Helena. She had nearly destroyed Samson's entire world.

His patience had run out.

"Jack is dead," he said, his voice flat. "He slit his own throat."

Lilith nodded, eyes still glazed and focused on nothing. "Life was not kind to him," she said sadly. "Life is never kind to us."

"There is no 'us,' either," Samson growled, his temper beginning to fray. "We may have been created by the hands of men, we may have been pieced together with corpses, and born from lightning, but we are _not_ the same. _You_ were unkind to him. _You_ taught him hatred, and pain, and cruelty. _You_ brought him into the world, into _your_ world, into a place of misery and madness. His death is on _your_ hands, not the hands of life, or fate, or humanity. _Yours,_ Lilith."

Her wide, sad eyes leapt up to meet his, and when she saw the fury, the disgust, and the contempt in his gaze, her face crumpled, and she dropped her head onto her knees and wept.

Samson felt his heart clench. Despite his grudge against Lilith, the smallest bit of sympathy flickered to life within him.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, rocking gently in her nest of tree roots. Her words were muffled by her dress. Samson moved closer so that he could understand her. "I'm sorry, Adam. I did not want this life. I have only ever wanted happiness. I only ever wanted you."

She lifted her head. Her face was a mask of pain and misery.

He had worn that mask for so very long. He had been so lost, so lonely, so miserable. His life had been nothing but torment.

Until Helena.

God help him. What if Helena had rejected him? What if she had given up on him, as he had first expected her to do? He had not been very kind to her in the first weeks of their friendship. He had been so full of bitterness and hatred. He had been so sure that she was just like all the rest of them. Shallow. Cruel. Pitiless.

Was that what Lilith was going through? Did Samson embody the small, fragile hope for salvation that Helena had symbolized for him?

What would he have done if she had rejected him the way Samson had rejected Lilith? What would he have done if he'd watched Helena turn to another man and leave him to drown?

God help him. He would have gone mad.

His heart clenched again, and the flicker of sympathy grew into a sharp, painful knot in his chest.

He knew what it was like to live in Hell. He knew what it was like to know nothing but hatred. To both despise and adore the world around him. To feel like he would never know happiness. Never, no matter how long he lived or how far he travelled. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many people he met.

He sighed.

"I know, Lilith," he said gently. He pictured Lena, curled up in a chair by the fire, sleeping peacefully with Zeus sprawled out at her feet.

He had found happiness. Despite his sins, despite his past, despite the fact that he did not deserve any of it, he had found Helena.

He was the luckiest man in the world.

He could not condemn Lilith's actions. If he had not found Helena, he would have been lost to the world, lost to any chances of redemption. He would have lost hope, and spiraled down into the dark abyss of madness.

He moved forward, and knelt beside her in the wet, damp soil. He reached out slowly, and placed one hand on her shoulder.

"You will find happiness," he said, his voice soft. "But it will not be with me."

Lilith looked up at him, her eyes still weary and sad, still glistening with tears, and a small smile curled her lips.

"I know," she whispered.

The sadness dissolved from her face, her eyes went very wide and her lips curled back in a feral snarl.

And she lunged at him, going straight for his throat.

She was small, but surprisingly strong. Samson tumbled backwards as she collided with him, teeth snapping together a hair away from his neck. Her eyes burned. Froth gathered at the edges of her mouth. She growled and shrieked like a wild, rabid dog.

Samson reached up and grabbed her throat, ignoring the pain as she clawed his arm and face with her fingernails. She was beyond reasoning, beyond control.

Beyond redemption.

He tightened his grip on her throat and twisted sharply.

Something snapped inside her neck.

Her body instantly went limp.

The light faded from her eyes.

Samson set her gently on the ground beside him and rolled to his feet.

He had killed the only person in the world who knew the secret to creating their kind. Who knew the secret of life.

As he stared down at her small, broken body, he felt no triumph, and he felt no guilt.

He felt a sense of finality. He was at the end of the path he had walked for so long.

He was done with his past. He was done with the sadness, and the pain. He was done with the anger. He was done with the guilt. The hesitation. The mistrust.

He had suffered for so long. He had known so much misery. So much darkness.

But his past, and his sins, and the pain and the darkness and the rage, they had all made him what he was today.

They had made him a man. A strong, determined man.

And it was love - Helena's love - that had made him human.

* * *

_Author's Note: Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Yay! Now, while we watch the Munchkins cavort around Munchkinland celebrating Lilith's demise, you'll have plenty of time to leave a review._


	28. Belonging

_Author's Note: I know everyone wants to see the reunion scene between Samson and Lena, but I must beg your patience, as it is just not feasible now that the Dubois family knows of Samson's existence. He explains it pretty well, I think. At this point, it's a matter of trust, and he doesn't take that lightly._

_Don't lose hope, though. It will happen, I assure you._

_Also, on a quick side note, I feel obligated to warn my lovely readers that I'm moving in about a week. Not very far, just across town, but there might be some delay in the next few chapters, while I pack up my life and move into our first house. :) _

_Also, huge props to Kim for naming this chapter for me. She's pretty awesome. :)_

* * *

**HELENA**

Lena's mother was sitting in an armchair by the fire, drinking a glass of port, when Lena and Abby stepped into the library. She glanced up at them and smiled, gesturing to the sofa. Lena's stomach tightened as she sat down, wondering what her mother would ask, and how much Lena would have to leave out. She hated lying. Especially to her parents.

"How are you both feeling?" she asked in a soft voice.

Abby looked to Lena with a kind smile. "I am well. Lena is nervous."

Regina chuckled. "Yes, I can tell."

Lena sighed. "_Maman_, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about him sooner, I…"

Regina held up one hand, cutting Lena short. "Don't apologize, my dear. I am not upset."

Lena blinked. "You're not?"

"No, not at all."

"But… don't you wish to know…"

"No, Lena. You do not need to explain anything to me."

Lena felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She took a deep breath. She hadn't quite known what to expect, but she knew her mother would be curious. Regina did not like to be uninformed about anything, especially when it came to her family. And _most_ especially when it came to her daughters.

"Do you like him, _maman_?" Lena asked quietly.

Regina smiled and took another sip of wine. She looked thoughtful and distant. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "When you were a child, when they brought you home after you fell into the river, I thought I was going to lose you. You looked so… so small, and so pale." Her voice wavered, and Lena felt tears stinging her eyes as she watched her mother struggle with her emotions. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I begged God not to take you from me." She took a deep, trembling breath. Lena reached out blindly and took Abby's hand tightly in hers. "And I thanked God, every day, for sending your angel down to save you."

Regina closed her eyes. "When Emily told me you had been taken, I felt like I was back in France, watching your father carry you inside, watching you fight the fever, watching you struggle for every breath you took, while I sat there, useless and helpless, unable to do anything to help you."

"I'm so sorry, _maman,_" Lena whispered. Regina shook her head, and took another deep breath.

"I didn't know what to do, and I didn't know what was going to happen to you. I felt so lost, and so terrified. I didn't know if…" Her voice caught, and her eyes glittered with unshed tears. "I didn't know if I was strong enough to go through this again. And then… And then Margot brought Samson to me."

She smiled then, a gentle, wistful smile. "As soon as I saw him, I knew who he was. You spoke of him so often, in the months following the accident. I knew he was the angel who had saved you, and I knew that he would save you again. I knew it in my soul. That man would move mountains for you, Helena. He would break down the gates of heaven to get you back."

Lena felt the tears burning in her eyes. She felt raw from emotion and adrenaline. She felt like half of her was missing, like she had left a piece of her soul with Samson, and she wouldn't feel whole again until he was next to her, until she could hear his voice and touch his skin.

Regina inhaled sharply, and blinked her tears away. She straightened her spine and leveled her solemn, pale eyes on Lena. "You asked me if I like him; I'm telling you now that I love him, as much as I would if he were my own son. I do not care who he is, or where he is from, or what he has done in his past. He saved my daughter's life; he brought you back to me, _twice_. Samson is one of us. And he always will be."

Lena leapt up from the sofa and moved forward. Her mother already had her arms held out, and she pulled Lena down into a tight, fierce hug.

"I love you, darling," Regina whispered, kissing Lena's forehead gently.

"I love you too, _maman_," Lena replied. "Thank you so much." She stood, and her mother stood with her, and turned to Abby.

Regina smiled, and held her arms out for Abby. "And you, my dear, I am so very glad you are safe," Regina said quietly, hugging Abby tightly. "Your parents are on their way to London; they should arrive in a fortnight, just in time to attend the Masquerade Ball."

Abby laughed and kissed Regina on both of her cheeks. "Thank you, Aunt Reggie."

Regina nodded. "Now, I think I'll retire. Are you two going to wait up for the men to return?" When Lena nodded, Regina smiled. "Very well. Gerald has prepared rooms for Samson and Lord Montford. He will show them up when they are ready."

Lena watched her mother walk out of the library, and sat down in the armchair she had vacated, leaning back into the cushion with a heavy sigh. Abby settled herself back on the sofa and smiled.

"Well, that went well, I think," she said.

"It did," Lena replied distractedly. She was so tired. Her whole body ached. A headache was brewing behind her eyes. But she couldn't fall asleep. She wouldn't allow it. She had to see him. She had to be there when he returned. "I was worried that she might get curious."

"Oh, I'm sure she's curious. Who wouldn't be? A dark, mysterious hero appeared from out of nowhere just in time to rescue you." Abby winked. "It sounds like a scene right out of one of Mrs. Radcliffe's gothic novels."

Lena smiled wearily. "It is a bit unusual, I suppose."

"A bit, yes. And your mother doesn't even know the whole story."

"And she won't," Lena replied. "No one will learn of Samson's origins unless he wishes to inform them himself."

Abby nodded, and then she smiled, gazing into the fire with distant eyes. "I still can't believe your angel and my Forest Spirit are the same man."

Something nagged at Lena, from the depths of her memories. Something about scars. She looked over at Abby. "I was going to ask you about that, in the park," she said suddenly. "You mentioned his scars, once, a long time ago, didn't you? I can't believe we didn't realize that he was the same."

Abby shrugged. "Well, you were barely conscious when he pulled you from the river. And I only met him once. I couldn't see anything but his face; he was wearing a cloak."

"But you remember your conversation with him," Lena teased.

"I do," Abby replied with a smile. "I've told it to you many times."

Lena leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. "Tell me again," she said quietly.

* * *

_The sun was out, and spring was coming, warding away the chill in the air as Abby played by the tiny pond near the cottage, watching baby ducklings swim about in slow, happy circles. A shadow fell nearby. She looked up to see a tall man standing beside her, staring down into the pond, at his reflection._

_He was awfully pale, and he had pink scars all over his face and hands. Long, dark hair fell around his face._

"_Hello," Abby said._

_The man jerked back, and looked over at her. "Hello," he replied hesitantly, his voice so soft it was barely more than a whisper. He looked awfully sad, like he had lost his favorite toy, or been scolded by his mama for staying up past his bedtime._

"_What is your name?"_

_He hesitated. "I do not have one."_

"_Oh," she replied. "My name is Abby. Why are you so sad?"_

"_Because I am a monster, child."_

"_Oh, I doubt that very much. Monsters have sharp teeth and glowing red eyes and they eat naughty little girls who refuse to take their naps and eat their vegetables." She narrowed her eyes up at him. "You cannot be a monster. Monsters are scary."_

_He smiled, timid and wary. It did not look like he smiled very often._

"_You are kind," he said softly._

"_I know," Abby replied with a shrug. Then, because her mother had ta__ught her that it was always polite to return a compliment when one was paid to you, she added, "you have a handsome smile."_

"_Do I? I wouldn't know." He seemed __confused, as if he had never considered the merits of a smile._

"_Yes, you do. You should smile m__ore."_

_His eyes were so sad. Even when he smiled, he looked sad. And yet, when he spoke, his voice held the slightest edge of hope. "Perhaps, one day, I will smile more easily."_

"_Hm__m. You should meet my cousin," Abby said with a knowing nod. "She can make anyone smile. Her favorite color is yellow. What is your favorite color?"_

_He blinked, unaccustomed to such rapid changes in topic. "I do not know."_

_Abby narrowed her eyes up at him. "You don't? Well that is interesting. Do be sure to let me know, when you find out."_

"_I will."_

* * *

"Green, Abigail," Samson said from the doorway. His voice was soft, the same voice Lena had heard from the darkness of her bedroom for months. "My favorite color is green."

Lena lifted her pale green gaze to his and smiled.

Her heart beat faster as she watched him move forward, into the golden circle of light cast by the fire. He looked like a warrior, returning home after battle, triumphant and tired. His hair and clothes were wet, and his skin was pale, but there was a smile on his lips that made Lena's entire body tingle.

Abby was grinning from the sofa. "Well, it certainly took you long enough to decide."

"My apologies," he replied. His eyes did not leave Lena, not once. "Though to be fair, it took me a shamefully long time to figure it out myself." His eyes seemed to glow in the firelight, flickering in time with his pulse. Lena stood from her armchair and moved towards him, almost without thinking, but before she could reach him, he held his hand out. She stopped.

He stepped aside, and Lena found herself staring down at the three young boys who had led her to Zeus. They were watching her with wide, frightened eyes.

"Helena, this is Samuel, who goes by Sam," Samson nodded to the eldest boy, whose eyes darted left and right, as if he were looking for a quick escape route. "And Gabriel, who prefers to be called Jack," he gestured towards the middle child, who had his arms clasped protectively around the youngest. "And the little one is Michael; his brothers call him Mickey."

"Hello, boys," Lena said with a smile.

"They are under my custody."

Lena's eyes darted up to meet Samson's. He was watching her with a carefully blank expression.

"They are?" she asked, her voice soft. She heard Abby stand, and felt her slide her arm around Lena's waist.

Samson nodded. "Their father is… gone." His eyes were dim, like burnished gold. He was asking her, with those eyes. And she knew it.

She turned her gaze to the oldest boy, Samuel. "I'm sorry for your loss." He looked so frightened, so skittish, but when she spoke to him, he lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw hope there. Fragile and desperate hope.

"Thank you, milady," he mumbled.

"You boys look very tired," she added. "Would you mind staying here tonight?"

Samuel's eyes widened. "N…no, milady."

Lena smiled. She could feel Samson's gaze on her, intense and unwavering. But she did not lift her eyes from the children. She remembered what it was like to be young and frightened. She remembered that all too well. "Excellent. We would be honored to have you as our guests."

Abby smiled beside her. "I'll go find Eleanor and have her get a room ready. I might even be able to flatter Cook into whipping up some of her famous cheese crumpets." She winked at the boys and stepped out of the library.

Now, Lena looked at Samson. He had a faint smile on his lips, and his eyes were bright. "Your father has gone to speak with the Home Office. Montford went back to his apartments, and I believe your brother has fallen asleep in the blue parlor."

Lena nodded. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to fly into his arms. Would it always be like this? Would they continue to be forced apart by the presence of others? God help her, she would go mad if she didn't get to kiss him soon.

A bark echoed in the hallway. All three boys jumped, and turned to the door. Samuel stepped out in front of his brothers protectively, but when Zeus nudged the door open, he did not run towards them. He padded forward and sat patiently beside Lena, and waited.

"I believe you've already met Zeus," she said with a smile. Jack nodded, but Samuel and Mickey stared with wide eyes.

"Blimey, that's a big dog," Mickey whispered. As if he'd heard, Zeus whined, and dropped down onto the floor, rolling over onto his back and exposing his belly. Mickey grinned, and stepped forward, hand out, to pet him.

Samuel grabbed him and yanked him back. "Careful, Mickey, 'e's liable to eat you 'ole, is what."

"Nonsense," Lena said gently, sending Zeus a loving smile. "He wouldn't hurt a fly."

In unison, the boys turned their heads and looked up at Samson for guidance.

Samson moved forward and knelt beside Zeus, scratching him under his chin. Zeus's big tail thumped happily against the carpet.

Mickey stepped forward, edging closer to Zeus, arm stretched out, despite Samuel's ferocious frown. He tentatively rubbed Zeus's belly, and when he didn't get eaten for his trouble, Jack joined him, scratching under Zeus's chin, just as Samson had.

From the doorway, Gerald cleared his throat, interrupting the silence. He bowed to Helena and Samson.

"I have readied your room, my lord," he said to Samson, "and taken the liberty of having a bath drawn. Emily and Margaret are readying the adjoining bedchamber for the young masters, and Cook will send up tea and crumpets forthwith."

Samson nodded and stood. "Thank you, but I am no lord."

Gerald bowed again. "As you say, my lord. Shall I show you to your rooms?" He stepped aside and gestured to the door. Samson stood, and Zeus rolled to his feet and started licking Mickey's face. Lena smiled at the little boy's laughter.

"Come with me, boys," Samson said. Samuel nodded, and gathered his brothers, and Lena's heart swelled at the growing, if wary, trust she saw in their eyes.

Then Samson turned and took Lena's hand. An electric spark tingled up her arm. He bowed and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles. "Helena," he murmured.

"Goodnight, Samson," she said softly.

"It's morning, my love," he replied with a grin.

Lena laughed. "Very well, then. I shall see you at breakfast."

**SAMSON**

After he had bathed and wrapped himself in one of Greg's robes, which was far too small for him, Samson sat down on his bed and tried to still his rapid heartbeat. He took deep, steady breaths, but the panic remained, crawling just beneath his skin. He felt caged in this room, in these clothes. He wanted to be with Lena. He wanted to hear her voice whispering to him from across the moonlit room.

The boys were asleep in the adjoining room. After he had carried Lilith's body to the river, he had returned to Grosvenor Square and found them waiting for him on a bench just outside of Hyde Park. They had looked so miserable, so sad and desperate. He had not intended to bring them back to Dubois House with him, but he could not leave them. It just wasn't an option.

Now, they slept curled tightly together, looking so tiny in that big bed. On Samson's request, Gerald had readied the servant's bedchamber for the boys, knowing they would be uncomfortable in a guest room, surrounded by silk and velvet and mahogany.

Samson watched them in silence, wondering what he was going to do with them. What if Helena didn't want three young, orphaned boys? What if she didn't like children at all? The subject had never come up between them. She had always been very careful not to speak of it.

Now, of course, he knew why. The old, familiar anger rose up within him. He wished he knew the path down to Hell, so that he could go there and find Stanford and throttle him for what he had done.

But anger was pointless. He could not hurt Stanford. He could only try to heal the wounds the bastard had caused.

He crossed the room and added another log to the fire. An image of the three boys, shivering in the cool, damp evening, arose in his mind, and he grit his teeth against the guilt. His heart ached for them. He wanted to help them in any way he could.

And he never wanted to see them cold and miserable, ever again.

He watched them for a while longer, to make sure they slept peacefully. A small pile of crumbling cheese crumpets sat on the table beside the bed, the stash Samuel had stuffed in his coat pocket when he thought no one was looking. These boys, they knew hunger. Like Samson had known it, in his youth.

And he wanted to make sure they would never go hungry again.

He turned and walked back into his room, glanced at the bed and sighed. He would get no sleep tonight. But he couldn't bring himself to leave. Now that the Dubois family knew him, and trusted him, it felt wrong to go sneaking through the house to see Lena. He couldn't break their trust like that. He couldn't throw their kindness back in their faces.

He would have to stay away from Lena, for now.

The door to his room opened. He turned, frowning, to find Abigail standing in the doorway. She was wearing a day dress, and her hair was pulled back in a simple chignon. She was carrying a large bundle of black cloth under one arm.

Light from the hallway poured into his room. It was almost lunchtime. He had closed the curtains in both his room and the boys' room, so that they could sleep peacefully.

"We thought you might be awake," she said cheerfully. She glanced at his robe, and grinned. "Eleanor had your clothes laundered. Lena was going to bring them to you, but Greg wouldn't let her. Said something about it being inappropriate. So she called him a stodgy old Englishman. Now they're arguing at the breakfast table."

Samson chuckled, and took the bundle from her. "Thank you, Miss De Lacey."

Abigail rolled her eyes. "Such formality," she teased. "Call me Abby."

He nodded. "Thank you, Abby."

She grinned up at him. "Come down and join us when you're ready. We have a very busy day ahead."

"Why?" Samson asked, frowning. "What's going on?"

One of Abby's eyebrows arched up, and she gave him a look that managed to be simultaneously amused and exasperated. "Everything."

Then she turned and walked away. Samson dressed quickly, poked his head into the boys' room once more, to make sure they were still sleeping, and then made his way down to the breakfast room. Every servant he passed nodded their head to him in deference, and several of them smiled at him. No one looked surprised to see the scars on his face, or the color of his eyes.

Gerald had explained that word of Lena's rescue had spread like wildfire through the household. All the servants had been eager to see him, to see a true hero in the flesh, and that Samson would never find any door in this house closed to him.

Samson felt supremely uncomfortable. He wasn't used to being noticed. Or being accepted without question.

He heard Lena and Greg before he saw them. Their voices carried well into the hallway, their tones a mixture of amusement and irritation.

When he stepped into the breakfast room, they both turned to him and fell silent. Lena smiled. Greg sighed in relief. At the side table, where the buffet was laid out, Abby glanced up from her plate and winked.

"Samson, good morning," Lena said, moving forward and taking his hand to lead him to the side table. When his hand touched hers, a spark tingled through his arm.

"Helena, please, _propriety_," Greg demanded, rubbing a hand over his face. "You can't just…"

"Hush, Greg," Lena scolded, her tone light. "I can and I shall. Samson, please ignore my brother, he's being excessively stodgy this morning."

She handed Samson a plate and returned to the table to take a sip of her hot chocolate.

"I'm not being _stodgy_," Greg snapped. "I'm just trying to keep up appearances."

The door opened, and Regina breezed in. "Greg, your father has requested your presence in the library." Her eyes lit upon Samson, and she smiled. "Good morning, Samson," she said cheerfully. When Samson started to bow, she laughed. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't you dare bow to me. Now fill up your plate and eat. Lena, Abby, I need you both in the blue parlor as soon as you're ready; Madame De Latier has arrived, and she's positively beside herself with excitement to start on your dresses." She paused to take a breath, and poured herself a cup of hot chocolate. "After that, we need to decide on flower arrangements and the menu. Gregoire, dear, please do not keep your father waiting."

Greg sighed, popped the last bite of toast in his mouth and stood. He nodded to Samson and his mother, and shot a narrow-eyed frown at his sister. "Samson, my tailor should be arriving within the hour to take your measurements. Please join us in the library when you're ready."

When Greg opened the door to leave the room, he had to jump aside quickly to avoid Margot and Zeus, who appeared to be in a race to see who could get to the buffet first. Over the cacophony of voices and laughter, Greg met Samson's eyes and saluted him. His message was clear.

_Good luck._

Samson laughed. He had heard the chaos of breakfast many times from the attic, but he had never thought he would be a part of it. Now, as he sat quietly beside Lena, holding her hand under the table, eating a hot breakfast and watching this beautiful, happy family, he felt something swelling within him that warmed him straight through to his very soul. It suffocated the panic and discomfort, the worry and anxiety, overwhelming him entirely.

So this was what it felt like to belong.


	29. Smile

_Author's Note: I've written a haiku. It describes my thought process when I'm uploading new chapters of this story:_

My beta, Kim, rocks.

My readers are awesome, too.

Procrastination.

_Admit it. You totally counted the syllables out in your head._

_Anyway, it looks like the story is slowly, but surely, coming to an end. It is NOT over yet, but I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Still a few loose ends to tie up, and some happy endings to finagle. God, I'm going to be so depressed when I finish this story._

* * *

**MARGOT**

"Gogo, please don't feed Zeus any more kippers. His breath is bad enough as it is."

Margot glanced up from Zeus's big, pleading brown eyes and met her sister's gaze. "But he likes them so _very _much," she said, sticking out her bottom lip in a pitiful pout.

Lena rolled her eyes and grinned. Beside her, Samson smiled. His reaction to Lena's joy was so instinctive, so unplanned, that Margot felt sudden tears burning at the back of her eyes, surprising her with the power of her emotions.

It was just that… after all this time of hiding in the shadows… it must have been so very nice, and yet also very frightening, for Samson to be so suddenly thrust into the light. Margot wanted to comfort him, but Samson did not need comforting. He needed to grow accustomed to the light; he would be living in it for the rest of his life.

"Samson, who are those boys in the green bedroom?" Margot asked, using the distraction to slip one last fish down to Zeus. "Are they your sons?"

Samson's eyes narrowed; he was not fooled by her ploy. "Of course not," he said gently. "They are orphans. Their father died last night."

Margot felt guilt nipping at her heels, and her smile faded. "Oh," she said, her voice soft. "That must have been terrible."

"It was," Samson agreed, his voice soft.

A heavy, solemn silence settled between the three of them, broken only by the steady thumping of Zeus's big tail on the carpeted floor.

"If I were a little boy," Margot said thoughtfully, "and I had just lost someone very close to me, I think I would very much like to have a friend." A warm, wet nose bumped against her hand, snuffling happily. "And perhaps a dog."

Lena smiled, and Samson nodded. "I think you are right."

Margot stood, and gestured for Zeus to follow her to the door. She paused there, and turned back to look at Lena and Samson.

Sitting there, together, doing nothing more than holding hands and smiling, they looked so achingly beautiful, so… so very whole.

Both of them. They just looked whole. Lena was no longer quite so pale, and she did not have that haunted, hollow look in her eyes. And Samson did not flinch at every noise. His back did not bow like the weight of the world and all its darkness sat heavily on his shoulders.

Margot took a moment to memorize them. To memorize how the hazy morning light streamed through gauzy curtains and picked out the golden blonde highlights in Lena's hair. To memorize how Samson's scars seemed to shine with a dull light with every movement he made. To memorize the looks of absolute and complete happiness on their faces.

To memorize this moment, so that she would always be able to look back and know what true, soul-deep love looked like.

And, for the first time in her life, Margot felt a very small twinge of jealousy, followed by a whisper of concern that snaked through her mind.

_What if I never know this kind of love?_

As if in response to her question, Samson nodded, just once. It could just as easily have been a gesture of farewell, or of friendship, or just a simple, meaningless nod.

But it wasn't.

She saw it in his eyes. That question, and its answer. She saw the echo of that fear, and she knew that he had wondered that. For a very long time, Samson had wondered if he would ever find this kind of love.

He had.

_And so will you_.

Margot nodded back. And she smiled.

And then she turned and started towards the green bedroom to make some new friends.

Zeus fell into step beside her, his tongue lolling out happily as they made their way up the main staircase and towards the wing of the house where the family slept. Samson's room was at the far end, in the corner; Margot had heard her mother mention to Eleanor that she thought he might be more comfortable if he were not surrounded on all sides by other people.

Very perceptive, her mother.

She knocked loudly on the door to the green bedroom, and when she didn't hear any sounds in response, she slowly turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

The three boys stood in the very middle of the room, huddled tightly together, with the oldest standing in front, guarding his two younger siblings.

Margot stepped into the room, and Zeus padded around and sat down in front of her. Her big, gangly, adorable guard dog.

"Hello," she said to the boys politely. It was odd, seeing them standing there like that; it was almost as if they were afraid to touch anything.

The oldest boy, the guardian, he lifted his chin defiantly and frowned at her.

"What d'you want?" he demanded. Margot winced. His accent was _atrocious._

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "Your names, perhaps?"

"An' what's it to you?" he replied immediately.

"There's no need to be so _rude_," Margot snapped, placing her hands on her hips like Cook did when she yelled at the scullery maids. "I'm just trying to be _polite_."

"Well, you can just shove it, then."

She was momentarily baffled. "Shove it? Shove… shove _what_? Where?"

Despite himself, the boy snorted in sudden, surprised laughter. But then he immediately sobered and frowned at her again. "Go away."

"I'll stay right where I am, thank you," Margot replied haughtily. "You cannot order me about in my own house; only my parents can do that. And my governess, Miss Buckham, I suppose. Though I don't usually listen to her."

The boy blinked. "This is… this is _your_ house?"

"Of course it is," Margot snapped. "I wouldn't very well be here if it wasn't, now would I?"

The boy looked somewhat baffled. "No," he said with a slow nod, "no, I don't suppose you would."

And that was that.

After a moment of odd silence between them, Margot sighed impatiently. "Well?"

"What?" He replied, genuinely curious this time. Despite the layer of grime and soot that covered every inch of exposed skin, the boy's eyes were bright and quick. And pale, pale blue.

A smile tugged at her lips. "What is your name?" she asked gently.

He blinked, and cleared his throat. "Me name's Samuel Taylor Coleridge, but all abouts call me Sam." He gestured with his chin towards the boy huddled behind him to his right. "This is Gabriel Jonathan, but we call 'im Jack." He nodded at the youngest, and a brief smile lit his face. "And this is Michael Benjamin, but 'e's just Mickey."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Margot said with a polite curtsey.

The boys stared at her like they'd seen a ghost. She didn't quite understand why. Didn't anyone curtsey where they were from?

"What's your name, then?" Sam asked casually.

"My full name is Margot Gabriella Regina Elizabeth Dubois," she said. She wondered why she felt the sudden urge to allow her French lilt to leak into her proper Engish accent. Strange. She'd never before felt tempted to flaunt her native language.

"Well, that _is_ a bloody mouthful, then, innit?" Sam replied in a quiet voice.

"Indeed," Margot replied. "You may call me Gogo."

"That one's even stranger," Sam noted.

Margot just shrugged. "How old are you?"

At that question, Samuel sobered quickly, and stared down his nose at her, answering in a curt voice. "I'm firteen, I am."

Margot frowned. "Fur-teen… Oh. _Thirteen_." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't _look_ thirteen."

"Says you!" Sam snapped, taking one threatening step towards her.

From Margot's side, Zeus let out a very soft growl. A gentle warning.

The boy froze in his tracks, and his eyes widened. Margot did not mock his fear, she merely leveled a steady, expectant frown at him and waited.

For a few moments, Sam glared angrily at her.

And then, quite suddenly, he dropped his gaze to the floor and cleared his throat.

"Maybe… Maybe I'm eleven," he mumbled at the carpet.

Margot nodded. "As am I," she said simply. She tilted her head at him. "Why on Earth would you lie about your age like that?"

Sam lifted his gaze. There was something about his eyes, at that moment. Something old and weary. Sadness ached within her heart, seeing that look on his face.

"If they think I'm old enough to take care of me brovers by meself, they won't take 'em away, right?" It wasn't so much a questions as it was a statement of fact. He truly believed that his brothers might be taken from him at any moment.

How terrible!

Margot's gaze fell to Mickey and Jack, still standing behind their brother, arms wrapped about themselves as if they were afraid any part of them sticking out might be used to yank them apart from each other.

"Who is going to take them away?" Margot demanded, suddenly angry at these nameless, faceless entities that threatened such innocent little boys.

Sam blinked at her. "The big man. Samson," he said slowly. "And… and the lady. 'Elena."

A sudden, surprised laugh escaped her. "They would never try to separate you, silly boy," she said with a disbelieving shake of her head. "And her name is Helena, with an 'H,' if you please. She is my sister."

"The nice lady?" the youngest chirped, peeking his head around Sam's elbow with wide, bright blue eyes. "She's what?"

"Hush, Mickey," Sam snapped.

Margot smiled. "She's my big sister. Like Sam is your big brother."

"Not all _that_ big," Mickey mumbled, eyeing Sam defiantly.

Sam lifted his hand up and brandished it at Mickey, a silent threat. But also an empty one; Mickey didn't even flinch.

Margot smiled again; it was obvious that Sam had not, and would never, hit his brothers, even if they were being mutinous.

"Quiet, you," Sam said. Then he directed his attention back to Margot. "You sayin' they ain't takin' us away?"

Margot sighed. She would have to work on that horrendous accent of theirs.

"From each other? No, they would never." She frowned for a moment. "Away from… from England? Well, I'm not quite sure. We usually return to France after the Season. Perhaps you'll join us?"

"Go to… to France?" Sam demanded, his voice cracking with disbelief.

"Yes, of course. That's where we live." Margot felt her voice lifting as she considered the prospect of returning home. "It is lovely there. No fog, no smoke, no dirty rivers that smell of unmentionable things. Just the endless blue sky and the countryside, rolling hills and old forests that go on forever and ever. The air smells like sunbeams and pine trees, and everywhere you go you can hear birds singing and crickets chirping." She glanced back over at the boys, and found them watching her with wide, quiet eyes. They appeared almost… entranced. Bewitched by the picture she had painted for them.

Mickey, the youngest boy, had tears glittering in his bright blue eyes. Margot stepped around Zeus and moved forward, skirting Sam so that she could kneel before Mickey.

"What's wrong, darling?" she asked gently, holding out her hands on instinct.

Instantly, Mickey came forward and latched on to her neck, sniffling quietly. "So pretty, lady," he whispered against her shoulder. "Sound so pretty."

Sam winced. "'E means what you said about… about France. He thinks it sounds… nice." Sam moved forward to take Mickey, but Margot shot him a quelling frown and picked up the little one, setting him on her hip just like Lena had always done when she carried Margot about the house as a child.

"Careful, Mickey," Sam said nervously. "You'll muss up 'er fine dress, you will."

"Stuff and nonsense," Margot replied. "It's just a dress."

"Yer daft, lady," Sam muttered.

Margot grinned. "Probably."

Something changed, at that moment. Sam's shoulders dropped, and that wary frown faded from his lips. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. Bright blue eyes glittered from his soot-stained face.

And he smiled.


	30. Son

_Author's Note: Sorry about the wait! I have the best beta ever! You guys are awesome! Too much wine makes for too many exclamation points!_

* * *

**HELENA**

They sat at the breakfast table for a long time after Margot left, hands clasped tightly, saying nothing. She felt like she was in a dream, floating through the world surrounded by sunlight and happiness. And Samson. Little sparks danced and tingled across her skin where she touched him. Those bright, golden eyes did not leave hers, not once.

A thousand words and thoughts seemed to pass between them. A thousand memories. A thousand smiles. The future seemed to be stretching before them, with the obstacles that had once loomed in their path fading into nothingness.

"I want to do this right, Helena," he said, breaking the silence with that deep, rumbling voice.

Lena smiled. "I know."

"I have nothing. No money, no land, no family, nothing," he added, voice soft, eyes weary.

Lena leaned forward and placed a soft kiss to his cheek, over one of the scars that bisected his face.

"You have me," she replied.

He lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips across her lips, over her jaw, ghosting along her neck. Lena felt her blood ignite at his touch, burning slow and languid beneath her skin.

"Are you sure?" he asked her.

Lena took his hand, pulled it from her neck and pressed a kiss to his scarred, calloused knuckles.

"Yes," she whispered. When he did not respond, she lifted her eyes up and found him frowning. Without thinking, she stood from her seat and slid down onto his lap, smiling at the look of surprise that crossed his face. "What can I say to make you believe me, Samson?" she wondered, tracing the scars along his collarbone, up around his neck, across his chin. "I love you. Nothing else matters. Whatever comes will come. We will face it together."

His arms slid around her, pulling her tight against his chest. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder. He radiated warmth, and he smelled like pine.

"I still haven't told you the truth about me," he said quietly.

Ah, that. Even now, she could feel him drawing back from her emotionally; he always kept this one barrier between them, this one last defense. Would he ever be free of it? Would he ever truly, completely trust her?

"Tell me tonight," she suggested innocently.

Samson narrowed his eyes down at her.

"I do not think that would be wise."

Lena smiled. "I will endeavor to behave myself." She sobered, and slid her arms up to clasp them behind his neck, leaning up to brush her lips over the thick white scar that bisected his neck. "Please, Samson."

He stiffened, though whether this reaction was due to desire or resolve, she couldn't tell. Perhaps both.

"Your parents trust me to behave honorably," he stated. Ah, definitely resolve. "I cannot break that trust."

Lena leaned back and narrowed her eyes at him. "Never bothered you before," she said archly.

Samson sighed. "They didn't know about me before, Helena," he said patiently. Clearly he had been expecting this conversation. "It is different now."

Lena slid her fingers into his hair and pulled his head down, pressing her lips to his without warning. Desire flashed to life like a wildfire within her, sending an electric tingle through her body. Sparks of static flickered across her skin.

For a moment, Samson froze. His arms around her grew rigid, his back straight, his lips unmoving against hers.

And then, a heartbeat later, a soft groan rumbled deep in his chest, and he gave in.

Instantly, the veneer of civility evaporated. His big hands slid down her back, skimmed over her hips, drawing out the fire that burned in her blood with every touch. His tongue danced with hers, and Lena whimpered at the sheer, overwhelming pleasure coursing through her body. She pressed her body against his, but it was not enough. Never close enough.

She gently nipped his bottom lip, and felt every muscle in his body go rigid and still.

He broke the kiss with a sudden gasp, grabbing her shoulders and holding her at arm's length as he fought to regain control of himself. For a moment she worried that she had hurt him, but then his eyes flashed open, and they were glowing, bright and hot, full of desire and desperation.

"You will be the end of me," he growled, taking deep and unsteady breaths.

Lena felt panic clawing at her. He was going to run away again. She could feel it. He was going to try to protect her stupid honor by putting physical distance between them.

"The gardens," she said quickly. "Meet me in the garden tonight at midnight. That is not nearly as scandalous as coming to my bedchamber."

A sudden, exasperated grin curled Samson's lips. "It is still scandalous."

"Please," Lena whispered, batting away his hands so that she could wrap her arms around his neck again, so that she could press herself against him and feel the warmth of his body, let it seep into her. "You can leave at any time; I swear I will not try to stop you." She leaned her head against his chest. "I'm begging you, Samson."

A long pause. She could hear his heart pounding in his chest. She waited and prayed.

"Very well," he said quietly.

Lena let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Thank you," she whispered. He wrapped his arms around her again, holding her close.

For a long while, they sat like that, in peaceful silence. Lena cherished their time together. She had missed him terribly. Every moment she was separated from him felt like agony, like some vital part of her heart had been ripped from her body, leaving her wandering in the darkness, lost and alone.

"I must speak with your father," he said after a while. That deep, baritone voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder. How she loved that voice, which had followed her in darkness for so long. She opened her eyes and leaned back slightly so that she could see his face, but did not otherwise move to get up from his lap.

"Do you want to speak to him alone?" she asked reluctantly.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Would you think me a coward if I said no?"

Lena grinned, and lifted her head from his chest. "No. Trepidation is to be expected. And it is, I am told, a common occurrence."

He nodded, and then he went quiet again. He did not rush her. He knew that rushing her would only make her cling to him more tightly.

Finally, Lena found the strength to release him, standing from his lap. His hands lingered on her waist, and he looked thoughtful, as if he was measuring the benefits of releasing her and finding them negligible.

Then, with a sigh, he let her go and stood. He towered over her; everything about him was big, and powerful, and masculine, and yet she did not feel intimidated. Not by his size, not by his voice, not by the scars that shimmered over his face and arms or the way his eyes flickered and pulsed like the flame of a candle in the wind.

She had never been intimidated by him.

Together they walked to the library, and together they entered. Lena's father stood by the fireplace, and Greg sat nearby in one of the big leather armchairs. Though neither of them looked very surprised to see Lena on Samson's arm, Greg frowned.

"Lena, do please join Maman and Abby in the Blue Parlor," he suggested pointedly.

"I shall," Lena replied, "in just a moment."

Greg sighed. "Father?"

"Helena," their father began, "I love you, my dear, but this really is something we must discuss with Samson. Alone."

"Why?" Lena demanded.

Her father blinked at her. "Well, because… because, you see…"

And so the great Spymaster was rendered speechless by his daughter's one-worded question.

"Do you expect to deny Samson his request, Papa?" Lena demanded.

"I do not," Philippe replied instantly.

"Do you think I have any objections?"

"No."

"Do you deny that this conversation will, if at least in part, involve myself and my future?"

"I do not," Philippe said with a sigh.

"Then why must I leave? It makes absolutely no sense that I - "

"Helena."

One word, spoken in that deep, gentle voice.

That was all it took.

Lena felt her frustration and her words dissipate. She fell quiet, momentarily bewitched by the hypnotic power of his voice. An instinctive smile curled her lips, and her grip tightened on his arm. She glanced up and found his eyes on her, warm and bright and devilishly amused. He arched one dark eyebrow at her.

_I'll take it from here, love._

Lena sighed. "Very well. Papa, Greg," she nodded her farewell to her father and brother, and sent one last arch smile up at Samson. "Darling."

Then she turned and walked out of the library.

**SAMSON**

In the stunned silence that followed Lena's departure, both Dubois men stood for a long moment with their eyebrows high and their eyes wide.

And then, after a long pause, Greg shifted his gaze to his father and said, "Well, that settles it, then."

Philippe cleared his throat and scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Indeed," he murmured.

Samson's lips twitched. He stepped forward and clasped his hands behind his back.

"My lord," he began, his voice soft and hesitant, "I have not been entirely truthful about myself."

"You haven't said much of anything on the subject, if I recall," Philippe mused.

Samson sighed. "There is not much to say," he admitted. His heart ached in his chest, simultaneously weary of this charade of being a normal man, and desperate to have Helena in his arms again. "I have no land, no money, and no family. I have no history. I am no one."

Philippe frowned, but it was Greg who spoke.

"Were you disowned?" he wondered, looking concerned.

Grim amusement flickered inside Samson. "I suppose you could say that." He hesitated. "I have no blood relatives, no family to speak of whatsoever. My past is… a dark thing. My memories hold nothing but pain and misery. Except…"

"Except for the day you saved my daughter's life," Philippe finished.

Samson smiled. "And every moment I am with her now."

Philippe was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Your past is of no importance to me, Samson. Your shadows are behind you. Though they may have helped to make you who you are, they are not _you_. It is who you are, here and now, that matters."

_But I am no one, even now._ He did not say this aloud, but it must have shown on his face.

"You are a good man," Greg said, his voice soft.

"You are a bloody hero," Montford said from the doorway. Samson turned, and found Montford leaning against the doorjamb with a grin on his face. He nodded at Samson and strolled forward.

Philippe moved to the sideboard and poured amber liquor into four glittering crystal glasses. He turned and handed one to Greg, and then one to Samson, and one to Montford. And then he went over to his desk and picked up a sheet of vellum.

"Samson," he began, "I have decided to donate half of Bennington's fortune to charity." He paused, and lifted his gaze to Samson's, handing him the slip of paper; it had a staggeringly large number scrawled on it. "After conferring with my son and the Earl of Montford, we have determined that the second half… should go to you."

Shock numbed him through, dampening his heartbeat and silencing the world around him until all he could hear was his own breathing in his ears. That number, on that sheet of paper…All the doubts that had hounded him, the fears of stealing Lena from the comfort she had known her entire life, the terror of losing her because he was a nobody, a man without a name who could never possibly give her the life she deserved…They dissolved into nothing.

Philippe's expression softened, and his voice grew quiet. "I can _never_ truly repay you for what you have done for my family, and this amount is paltry compared to what you deserve, but Gregoire was under the impression that you would not have accepted a larger sum. And Samson…"

"Yes, my lord?" Samson asked, his voice soft and disbelieving.

"I would be _honored _to have you as my son."

Samson's heart stopped in his chest.

For so long he had dreamed of having a family. He had wished, he had hoped, and he had cursed his stupid heart for wanting that which he knew he would never have. He had faced death, he had fallen lower than the demons of Hell, and yet he had continued to hope, despite the misery that had threatened to consume his soul.

And now, Philippe Jean-Marc, Vicomte de Millau, stood before him with a kind smile on his face.

"My lord," Samson said hesitantly, "the boys…"

"You mean your young nephews?" Greg asked with an easy smile. "Yes, I heard about what happened to your step-brother. Such a tragedy, that house fire in Bristol. It is good of you to take the boys, instead of shipping them off to an orphanage. The upstairs maids are half in love with you from the romance of it all, what with you rescuing damsels and sheltering orphans left and right. Think you're some kind of Viking Lord, like Beowulf."

Samson pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. That, at least, explained why none of the servants had reacted negatively to his presence.

"Albeit heavily-scarred and frighteningly large," Samson noted wryly.

Greg shrugged. "Isn't that what Viking Lords are supposed to look like?"

"Perhaps I should change my name to Ulfric."

Greg and Montford laughed.

Philippe cleared his throat and lifted his glass. "To Samson, my future son-in-law."

Greg stood and lifted his glass. "To my brother, the Viking Lord."

"Here, here," Montford said with a grin.

"Welcome to the family," Philippe said with a nod.

Samson lifted his glass and smiled.


End file.
